


six different ways

by orphan_account



Series: a primer (for small, weird loves) [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - High School, Boyfriends, College Anxiety, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Established Relationship, First Dates, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Only mentioned though, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reddie Window Shenanigans, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Richie Tozier, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, but i'm sure ill find a quote or two, eddie just wants it to be pride month in california every single day in derry, not so inspired by our lord and savior richard siken this time, sooo much fluff, that is not how it works unfortunately, this is just long and Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:51:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23342929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Then, unfortunately, Eddie Kaspbrak met Richie Tozier. More truthfully, Richie Tozier ran into Eddie Kaspbrak, and shook everything up along with it.Richie was bright, he was loud and foul-mouthed, and he joked around more than he did anything else. Richie was long and tall and curly black hair and big eyes and pink lips, and Eddie had wanted him. From the very first moment, Eddie had wanted him. That wasn’t new to Eddie, the whole crush thing. But then Richie introduced Eddie to his friends, and he talked to Eddie softly and he wrapped Eddie up into his arms. And then he was queer. And then, and then, and then. With Richie, everything was a surprise. Nothing was ever predictable, or easy to figure out and organize, which had frustrated Eddie just as much as it had intrigued him.Alternatively,Five times Eddie does something brave, and one time he doesn't have to.(part of the 'teen age riot,' universe)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: a primer (for small, weird loves) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599874
Comments: 27
Kudos: 118





	six different ways

**Author's Note:**

> hi again!
> 
> so, remember how i said something like, "don't expect anything else from me for awhile,"? that was a lie. 
> 
> listen, i didn't plan on writing anything else in this universe, seriously, and then one day in january i opened up my laptop and all i could think about was how i just wanted to explore this relationship further. and now, almost four months and 27k words later, we have.. whatever this is. i hope you like it. 
> 
> this little oneshot is dedicated to a myriad of people, amongst everyone who read tar, so if you have a twitter make sure you check these people out because i like them an awful lot. 
> 
> first and foremost, [paige](https://twitter.com/cinnamonoora) and [kaley](https://twitter.com/warmkaspbrak) who have very subtly kept me sane and motivated throughout this entire 8 month process, [tami](https://twitter.com/reddiies) who has been campaigning this fic to the world of twitter for so long i should start paying her, [snig](https://twitter.com/novakasp), who has also given me some way too kind words in the forms of tweets that i don't deserve the clout for, [krysta](https://twitter.com/krystajoice) who has been hyping this bad boy up since tar was halfway conceived, [sonja](https://twitter.com/northvinyls) who although only finished reading tar today has hyped me up as well as supplied me with various other incredible fics, [muji](https://twitter.com/itminiseries) who is also a writer, and who also had so many kind words for me over this process, and lastly, [bea](https://twitter.com/vcmpireddie) because i told them i would forever ago, and whom i also just adore. 
> 
> i think.. thats it? for now, at least. anyway, check them out, thank them if you enjoyed this, and ill see you at the end!

_this is stranger than i thought,_

_six different ways inside my heart,_

_and everyone i'll keep tonight,_

_six different ways go deep inside_

_six different ways / the cure_

_\--------------------------_

_Prelude_

Eddie Kaspbrak has always considered himself to be a multitude of things. He’s polite, always full of friendly smiles, real or otherwise, and he'd like to think he's good with adults. His teachers have never had a problem with him, anyway, and he never gets an attitude with the what feels like hundreds of family members who squeeze his cheeks everytime they see him, no matter how much he hates it. He’s clean, organized in a cluttered sort of way. Everything is always dusted in his room but not pressed to corners in clean cut angles or placed meticulously, and the surfaces of dressers and nightstands aren’t bare. He himself is _definitely_ clean. He’d like to think he’s obedient - but he knows that if traits could be measured in percentages his obedience has dwindled with time. He’s smart to a degree, good in school but never without trying. Maybe funny, maybe loud and sharp, maybe neither at all. 

Confident is never something Eddie thought of himself as. Eddie looks into the mirror, and he doesn’t _hate_ what he sees, no, but he isn't like, obsessed with it either. Short arms, short legs, long torso, covered in little brown freckles his mom has taken him to multiple appointments for. Mousy brown hair and big brown eyes. Chapped lips despite the Blistex, bitten fingernails despite everything in him that hates it. It’s not bad. He’s not bad. Just not much to fuss over. Whatever, narcissism is an ugly trait to have anyway. His mother taught him that.

Eddie’s mother fusses, though. She always has. About what Eddie wears, where he goes, who he talks to, what he’s doing. The list of things Sonia Kaspbrak _doesn’t_ fuss over is shorter than the list of things she does. It got better after they moved to Derry from New York, or maybe it got worse. They talk less, Eddie and his mom. Everything is strained and awkward and clipped, but at least the overbearingness has stopped. At least she didn’t ship him off after finding out her precious, delicate Eddie had a liking for boys and their rough hands and sly smiles as opposed to - well, anything else. Normal girls. _Nice_ girls. Girls in general. That’s what Sonia had always asked him, before. _Aren’t you going to find yourself a nice girl, Eddie?_ And Eddie would shrug, he would blush, talk briefly about some girl in his english class with his teeth clenched before stalking up the stairs to his bedroom on shaky legs. Thankfully, those questions had stopped too. 

If Eddie were to try to pick apart everything wrong with his mother and her relationship with Eddie, which would then of course spill into everything wrong with just Eddie, he’d be doing it until the world stopped spinning.

In a brief synopsis, though, it would go something like this: Sonia Kaspbrak had an affinity for howling at doctors and shoving Eddie full of sugar pills and fake aspirators for a good part of his life so far. Convinced herself and him and everyone else that Eddie was sick, had been sick, and would always be sick. Eddie found out one fateful day at fifteen years old that it was all in fact bullshit, and she’d repented until the sun set when he’d gotten home and confronted her. Confronted may be too strong a word to describe his shaking limbs and trembling voice, but at least he'd done it. There were apologies that Eddie accepted at the surface, and for the most part they moved on. Not the same, but not broken.

Then, Eddie was found under the bleachers with his at-the-time boyfriend slash friend slash the only other (known) gay kid in his entire school. He'd been smacked around a few times, with hands from the group of assholes who caught them and with words by mommy dearest, before he wrapped up into a U-Haul and dragged all the way to Maine, kicking and screaming. Maybe metaphorically, but it's all a blur, really. They’d both cried, screamed at each other until their voices were hoarse, when Sonia found out. Silence followed, though. Then and in the three weeks it took to pack the house up, the entire drive to Derry, and now, even. Eddie hadn't minded, the quiet was nice.

Now, if you were to ask what Eddie's mother thought of him, it would probably sound a lot like small, delicate, and hard to understand. Different from her in too many ways. And, well, she hadn’t bothered to learn who Eddie was after the fake pills and whole homosexuality thing, so Eddie stopped trying to fix her. Stopped his weak attempts at conversation, reconciliation, whatever you want to call it. There wasn’t time, anyway, to mend what had fallen apart. Eddie would go off to college come the end of his senior year, and they might talk but they also might not, and that would be fine. Again, probably too strong a word, but Eddie's forte never was english language arts.

So, in the mash of what Sonia decided Eddie was and what Eddie decided Eddie was, bravery hadn’t come up. He didn’t stress himself out over it, didn’t really care. There were other people in the world who could have that - go to war or tame lions or fix broken relationships with sick mothers. Eddie figured he didn’t have to have bravery or confidence to live the rest of his life, which would undoubtedly turn out to be nothing short of boring and predictable and probably lonely. 

Then, unfortunately, Eddie Kaspbrak met Richie Tozier. More truthfully, Richie Tozier ran into Eddie Kaspbrak, and shook everything up along with it. 

Richie was bright, he was loud and foul-mouthed, and he joked around more than he did anything else. Richie was long and tall and curly black hair and big eyes and pink lips, and Eddie had wanted him. From the very first moment, Eddie had wanted him. That wasn’t new to Eddie, the whole crush thing. But then Richie introduced Eddie to his friends, and he talked to Eddie softly and he wrapped Eddie up into his arms. And then he was queer. And then, and then, and then. With Richie, everything was a surprise. Nothing was ever predictable, or easy to figure out and organize, which had frustrated Eddie just as much as it had intrigued him.

_\--------------------------_

**1.** _Spring_ , _1993_

When the sun rose on April 13th, 1993, Eddie hadn’t really planned to be the one to shake things up. He hadn’t really planned on being brave. Things happen though - and maybe there was a plan under the surface, set into his skin. As far as conscious decision goes however, Eddie’s knowledge of how that day would go went as far as confronting Richie about what the hell the problem had been. And there had been a problem. Not a huge one, but big enough that Eddie had woken up and found his way to Richie's house on autopilot.

Something had changed. There had been a shift between the two of them, both good and bad. 

It started as a moment, a week ago in the passenger seat of Richie’s car, where Eddie had thought maybe, just maybe, something was going to give. Eddie wasn’t stupid, had been chased and circled by boys scared of themselves and others a good part of his high school experience. Eddie wasn’t cocky enough to assume that Richie liked him, not right off the bat, but he knew the signs. Richie’s red cheeks, and his white knuckles and his soft eyes. Eddie knew what to watch for, and until Richie spilled his guts all over the shody carpet in Mike Hanlon's outhouse, Eddie had ignored it. He’d spent too much time hiding with boys who dated girls or ignored him outside shared kisses in the woods, and even Richie Tozier wasn’t cute enough to go back into secrecy after Eddie had been forced out of it a handful of months ago. 

But then, Richie had come out. He’d clenched those knuckles, not for the first time or the last, and looked at his group of friends and told them the truth, and then everything changed. In Eddie’s head, at least. It hadn’t come as a surprise, the queer part, but the everything else had. The truthfulness, the rawness. Eddie saw Richie different then, in some ways. Richie was always admirable - in looks and behavior - but his bravery, his strength. Eddie envied it just as much as he fell for it. 

From that moment, the two of them were different with each other. Eddie watched as Richie pulled himself away protectively, which hurt to see. Watched Richie avoid his eyes and the hammock and Eddie’s hands. Eddie had been mistaken to think that telling Richie he was gay would fix it, it hadn’t. It had done quite the opposite, in fact, causing Richie to turn his cheek instead of jump the gun. Richie had been distant the week after - strained and avoidant, and Eddie had figured it was his fault. Maybe, Richie didn’t feel the same. Maybe, kissing Eddie was the last thing Richie had wanted to do. 

So a week passes, and Eddie doesn’t sleep. A few hours every school night and not at all the night before Saturday, and when he finally gave up at eight in the morning and paced around his house for a few hours, he made a decision. Eddie was going to confront Richie. Ask him what the hell was going on, apologize, even, so that they could move forward. Eddie could deal with unreciprocated feelings, he’d done it before. 

He got ready frantically, brushing his teeth and begrudgingly scarfing down half of his breakfast before brushing his teeth again, and biked to Richie’s house. His mother hadn’t protested, she’d glanced at his unfinished plate and his jittery posture minutely before returning to her morning newspaper. It had stung and also relieved Eddie, because as much as he hadn’t wanted to deal with the nagging, her lack of interest still cut deep. He wished only for a moment, albeit desperately, that they could find a happy medium.

Still, he ignored it. Peddled a little too quickly to the one story house on the corner of Mission and skidded breathlessly to a stop. From that moment on - things moved feverishly. Not necessarily fast, but dazed. Like he was jumping from one moment to the next, never staying in one spot for enough time. Which felt unfair: because while Eddie hated the awkward way they held themselves, if everything ended in rising voices and slammed doors, he’d rather stay in the uncomfortableness of it all rather than never speaking to Richie again. Not the same, but not broken.

Seeing Richie in his doorway took Eddie’s breath away quicker than any phantom-asthma ever could, and he’s sure the way he’d sagged his shoulders in relief was all too telling, put he pushed on. Eddie pushed on through Richie’s abearence, through his stature miles away on the other side of the couch, through Richie’s incessant flipping of the channels. He’d pushed on through Richie’s staring, and his silence, felt everything bubble up inside of his chest until there was no turning back, and then _Eddie_ jumped the gun. 

Throughout a good chunk of their half-argument half-conversation, Eddie felt strung out and frustrated, until he’d realized that maybe they were both on the wrong side of a double sided page. Watching Richie skirt around explanations and his pale cheeks flush red ignited something in Eddie’s chest. Blurry and bright, and before he could talk himself into or out of it, he sat up on his knees and grabbed Richie’s face. 

It’s a whirl, the whole thing is, but kissing Richie made Eddie feel more clear-headed than he ever had his entire stay in Derry thus far. He could feel everything. Richie’s surprisingly soft lips and his hand carding through Eddie’s hair, the spots where their shared weight dipped the couch so their knees touched. He felt short of breath and also like he may never need oxygen again, which held true until it absolutely didn’t and Eddie had to pull away. He reveled in the nearly desperate noise in the back on Richie’s throat and how Richie shot out for one quick peck. It was comforting to know that Eddie wasn’t the only one who had been waiting. 

Richie’s knees collapse like they can’t hold him up any longer, and as he falls against the couch flat on this back, Eddie follows. He knows he doesn’t have too, but the idea of separating himself enough to get out of Richie’s way sort of grabs at his throat, so he doesn’t. He lays in the cradle of Richie’s hips, arms on Richie’s chest with his head propped in his hands. 

Richie’s eyes flutter, and Eddie doesn’t dare to blink. Richie shakes his head, like waking up, and Eddie snorts helplessly. It’s an embarrassing sound but he can’t be bothered to hide it. Richie makes eye contact with him finally, squinted and warm without his glasses, and Eddie’s throat constricts again. 

Once settled, after an embarrassing confession on Eddie’s part, coupled with a disbelieving reciprocation on Richie’s, they stay relatively silent. _Surprisingly_ silent, even. Eddie leans his head on his palms and taps at Richie’s chest while he tries to watch the movie. Or, tries to appear like he’s watching the movie, which he couldn’t be asked to even try to grasp at this point. Richie’s arms come to clasp around his middle unsurely, and Eddie flags against his chest once they do. He’s tired, and content, and the movie has a good enough chunk left that he could probably fall asleep and wake up before it’s over, so Eddie closes his eyes.

And maybe if it were a different situation, sleep would follow. It doesn’t come, whether it be the rush of Eddie’s blood or the pounding of his heart, he’s too amped up to rest. Not to mention he can _feel_ Richie's eyes on him. At any other time Eddie would find it creepy, but his heart just quickens in its already heavy beat.

“I can tell you’re looking at me.” Eddie says, muffled slightly where the corner of his mouth is pressed into Richie’s sweater.

Richie’s stomach pushes softly, like he’s huffing a laugh. “More like trying to find you.” 

“Hm?”

“You sort of commandeered my glasses from me, Eds, I can’t even tell which way your facing.” 

Eddie grumbles quietly, would have more of a comeback if Richie hadn’t called him _Eds_ , and flails his arms to retrieve Richie’s lenses from somewhere behind him with red cheeks. Eddie grasps the frames and brings them toward Richie, lifting his head as he does. Richie slips his glasses on and still looks like Richie, and Eddie is sort of coming to the realization that there isn’t a version of him he doesn’t like. 

That’s enough to have Eddie flushing yet again, so he turns his head back down and toward the movie. Richie’s doesn’t move. He tries to ignore it, and things still feel fuzzy so he doesn’t know how much time he spends doing so until he gives up, but eventually he does. 

Eddie sighs overdramatically, flopping his head back towards Richie. “Your eyes are like, _burning_ a hole through my face right now.” 

Richie’s mouth quirks slightly, cockily, but his cheeks flush pink so the idea of being caught isn’t lost on him. He slowly moves his eyes to the television, wiggling his body. Just to be a shithead or to get more comfortable, Eddie isn't sure.

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Your silence is super off-putting. Just so you know.” 

“Yeah?” Richie asks, still staring at the television. “Why’s that?”

Eddie quirks one eyebrow, or attempts to, which is hard to do when the muscles are already pulling upwards, so he settles for furrowing them. “What do you mean? You talk all the time. _Not_ talking is weird.” 

Richie shrugs, “Didn’t wanna ruin the vibe.”

“The _vibe._ ” Eddie mocks, “What vibe? The one where we pretend to watch the last fifteen minutes of _Sleepless in Seattle_?” 

Richie meets Eddie’s gaze, looking playful, “You said you hadn’t seen it.”

“I haven’t!”

“So, don’t you want to watch the movie?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, “Dude, I wasn’t even paying attention _before_ we started talking. I have no idea what’s going on.” 

Richie’s smile turns to something softer, more sincere, “Whose fault is that?” 

Eddie feels his lips spread involuntarily, which is annoying but also feels really nice, and says, “It’s definitely yours.” 

“How is it my fault?” 

“Why do you keep asking questions?” 

Richie raises his eyebrows now, pressing his lips tight together in contradiction, and looks back at the television again. 

Eddie doesn’t look away this time. He trails his eyes over the curve of Richie’s jaw and his nose, learns where his glasse frame his face and hide his eyelashes. Richie is a lot of things, but hard to look at isn’t one of them. His face flows, eases together naturally in a way that could take up too much attention if you got lost in it. His skin is pale, and dotted in freckles alike Eddie’s. More prominent against his skin tone, cluttering around his nose and cheeks. Eddie patters his finger against Richie’s chest in a rhythm that matches nothing and looks at him, for a moment. 

Eventually, Eddie places his palms flat against Richie’s chest, feels the thump of it as Richie turns to look at him again. 

“Your heart is beating really fast,” Eddie says softly, for no reason other than acknowledgement. It’s nice to feel it against his hands. Proof that Richie is alive, proof that he’s affected despite his collected demeanor. 

“Is it?” Richie asks.

“Yeah.” Eddie replies instead of countering. He’s coming to find Richie uses questions when answering feels like too much. “Mine is too.” 

Richie’s eyes flutter again, and his shoulders sag in what looks like relief. His mouth opens around words he doesn’t say before it clicks closed again, and Eddie can feel his arms tighten around his back for a second. 

Eddie reaches one hand upwards, falling to the right a bit on his arm so he can cup Richie’s cheek, stroke the skin underneath his eyes. 

“You can talk to me now, you know that right?” Eddie murmurs, watching Richie’s eyes close and feeling his eyelashes brush the tip of his thumb. “You don’t have to keep everything bottled up anymore. You can tell me what you’re feeling.” 

“Where’s the fun in that, Eds?” 

“Richie.” 

Richie sighs heavily, opening his eyes and taking Eddie’s hand on his face down to intertwine their fingers together, something meaningful in his gaze. “It’s just - it’s scary. None of this,” Richie says, a vague gesture to the space around them with his free hand, “Was ever even a possibility for me up until thirty minutes ago.” 

Eddie squeezes Richie’s hand comfortingly. “I know.” Because he does. Regardless of what Eddie thought he knew over the last few months, this ending how it did wasn’t something he’d thought up. And if he had, it certainly wasn’t realistic. 

“I guess you do, huh?” Richie asks, stroking Eddie’s hand with his thumb. 

Eddie nods, pulling their locked hands in as best he can towards him, kissing Richie’s knuckles softly. 

Richie exhales heavily, shakily, like it all doesn’t add up. “When did you know, anyway?” 

“Know what?” Eddie asks. 

“That you - that this was something you wanted. I mean, like-”

“When did I know I wanted to throw myself at you?” 

“Shut _up._ You make it sound so-”

“When did I know I wanted to kiss you?” Eddie laments, watching Richie’s face twitch.

“Yeah.” Richie answers on an exhale, like he’s sighing it. 

Eddie thinks for a moment. He could pull up more moments than fingers where he’d wanted to kiss Richie over the course of the last few months. Even more when he thinks about the times he had to actively stop himself from doing it. 

“I’ve known for a while.” Eddie answers eventually, “Like, if I’m being honest, the first day we met. That was only cause you were so cute and nice to me though.” 

Richie scoffs and Eddie smiles at him, close lipped and cheeky, allowing his heart to pang when Richie squeezes his hand again. 

“But when did I know for sure?” Eddie continues. Richie nods, eyes a little wide. “It was - do you remember that day at the clubhouse? The first time. I was upset, and you came up to me and put your hands on my shoulders-”

“Like this?” Richie asks, unraveling their fingers to place his hands on Eddie, thumbs stroking over Eddie’s sweatshirt just like they had that day. Eddie’s eyelashes flutter, and for a moment he’s right back where he was. Thriving on every little touch. 

“Mhm.” Eddie confirms. “And you told me you paid attention to me.” 

“Which I do.” 

“Oh, so now he’s talkative?” 

Richie mimes zipping his lips before he resumes his placement on Eddie’s frame, and Eddie wants to kiss him just as badly, if not more, than he had that day. 

“All I wanted to do was kiss you. But I didn't even know if you were gay, and all your friends were there, so I couldn’t.” Eddie says, “It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it though.”

“No?” Richie questions, quiet and soft, like he’s afraid he’ll disrupt something and the moment will pass. He never could. Eddie wants to _tell_ him he never could, but he keeps focused on the topic at hand.

“No. But it was the first time it hit me that I wanted _more_ than that. I didn’t want to kiss you just because I wanted to kiss the cute boy in my math class. I wanted to kiss you because you were you.” Eddie says, the sentence speeding up towards the end. He’s got to push it out, the honesty. Richie deserves it. Even if it makes him squirm, even when he wants to shove himself inside of his skin.

Richie is looking at him in a way that can only be described as awed. A little flushed and dazed, and his mouth is parted. His eyes bore into Eddie’s before they move to settle on Eddie’s lips, and now that Eddie _knows_ that’s where he’s looking, _knows_ he wants to kiss him, it’s that much harder to not give in. Eddie inhales through his nose determinately, presses on. 

“Well, how about you?” 

“Hm?” Richie asks, his eyes following the shape Eddie’s mouth makes around the syllables. 

Eddie can’t help the smile that folds across his cheeks. “When did you know?”

The spell breaks, halfway but not fully, and Richie removes his gaze. His eyes don’t settle on Eddie’s, instead they rest somewhere behind Eddie’s head. It’s an example of willpower instead of defense this time, and Eddie melts with it. 

“I mean, sort of the same. Just a little different.” Richie replies. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I remember seeing you for the first time and realizing I was sort of fucked,” Richie meets Eddie’s gaze and matches his grin, “And I wanted more every day after that, but I didn’t think about kissing you. For a little bit, at least.” 

“Should I be offended?” Eddie chides lightly, resting his palms on Richie’s chest to press up onto his elbows a bit. Richie follows every movement. 

“Nah,” Richie says, but it’s rough, trapped in his throat. “If I had I probably would’ve like, I don’t know, spontaneously combusted on the spot. Just a pile of dust and a pair of glasses.” 

Eddie laughs slightly. “That’s a mental image,” 

Richie wiggles his eyebrows, but keeps going. “It - um. Do you remember the time we all went and saw _Groundhog Day_? And I biked you home?”

Eddie nods, “Along with Mike and Bill, but sure. I remember.” 

“After Mike left, it was just you and I in your driveway. And I was - God, I was so scared to even hug you goodbye. You were just like, rocking on your heels and talking about _something_ , and-”

“I called you stupid.” 

Richie snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, you did. And then you leaned forward, and I thought that for a second, you were going to kiss me.” Richie’s eyes close, like he’s back in the moment just as Eddie had been.”You didn’t, we just hugged and I’m pretty sure I left without saying anything, but yeah. I hadn’t ever thought about kissing you before, never let myself, but after that it was all I could think about.” 

Eddie watches Richie, feels his own eyes soften and warm up so far beyond his control, and feels okay with that. It isn’t a new feeling, that honey melting through his brain and into his pores, but now he’s allowing it. It’s new, revolutionary, to give himself over to Richie.

“I almost did. Kiss you, that is.” Eddie murmurs, watches Richie tilt his head down and bite his bottom lip. 

“I wish you would have.”

“Me too.” 

This time, Richie initiates the kiss. Forces himself up and grasps Eddie’s cheeks, pressing their lips together. No waiting, or foreshadowing, diving in deep like he can’t help himself any longer. Eddie lets it wash over him, that feeling of being wanted, breathes it in deep through it nose. The kiss isn’t heavy, but it’s still overwhelming. Their lips part and form around each other’s with something that isn’t all the way desperate. A sense of need but also understanding that there’s time, now. Fast with longing and slow with relief. 

Once, Richie said that living in Derry was like living underwater. And while he had a point, Richie’s lips feel a lot like coming up for air. 

\--------------------------

**2.** _Spring_ **,** _1993_

One week later, Eddie makes another plan. 

Eddie’s always been the type to do so - when it comes to anything at all. He has a journal, a handful of them, to be exact, but there’s a specific one that rests on his nightstand. It’s small and light grey leather, with a lock on the front and a key he keeps in the front pocket of his backpack at all times. Anything that isn’t school related finds its way there, from daily routines to reminders to ideas. Other times, it’s just thoughts. When there are too many to keep inside his head, Eddie pours them out through a sharpened number two pencil to find some relief.

This is how he finds himself writing a too in depth plan to ask Richie out on a date the night he gets home from what his brain has begun labelling _The Kiss._ And the thing is: Eddie is _aware_ he puts more thought than necessary. He’s _aware_ that he could plan something down to the millisecond and it would still end up falling apart one way or another. Unfortunately, knowing this doesn’t stop him from doing it. 

The falling apart piece of it isn’t always a problem, sometimes things not going according to plan works out okay in the long run. (See; Eddie getting caught with Aaron under the bleachers leading to Eddie meeting Richie, in a roundabout sort of way.) The issue comes with the frustration of everything not going right. 

Still, Eddie plans. He works out asking Richie on date to the Aladdin for Friday evening on Wednesday - not Monday, too many days in between, and not Thursday, too short notice - and fills the blanks in from there. They’ll leave after school in Richie’s car, 3:15pm, to make the 4:00pm showing of _A Boy’s Life_. That’ll end at around 6:20pm, and from there they’ll grab some food at the diner on the corner. The entire ordeal should be over by 7:30pm at the latest, which gives Eddie thirty minutes to get home for his 8:00pm curfew. 25 minutes longer than the five minute drive from downtown to Eddie’s house. Throw in a few breaks involving kissing Richie the way he wants to, and it works out perfectly. 

Eddie closes his notebook after lining the page with the current date, locks it up, and steadies himself for an hour or two of nightime T.V with his mother to soften her up. As he sits cross legged on the couch next to her, eyes glazing over at the current infomercial, he wills the butterflies turned wasps to die off inside his stomach. All he has to do is continue doing that for the next four days, and everything will work out perfectly. 

\--------------------------

Come Sunday evening, nothing is going according to plan. 

The reason being, Eddie is currently pacing as quietly as possible near the upstairs telephone, debating silently with himself on whether he should call Richie or not. Pros: Talking to Richie, hearing his voice, badgering him enough to hear his laugh to avoid confessing how much Eddie _misses_ him despite seeing him two days ago. All of which feels so hung up and schoolgirl-ish that he wants to throw up in his mouth. He also wants to feel like this forever, though, so.

Cons, however, are as follows: Eddie can’t talk to Richie without inevitably asking him out, because he knows himself. And as it turns out, that’s the only Con he can think of. Aside from ruining his planning, which would usually be enough to advert it all together, and the fact that it _isn’t_ only goes to show just what kind of effect Richie is having on him. That doesn’t leave a bitter taste in Eddie’s mouth like it should, though. It only makes Eddie miss him more. 

“Fuck it,” Eddie murmurs softly, leaning as far forward down the staircase as he can to try and get a glimpse of his mother. She’s downstairs, once again in her cushioned recliner in front of the television. Her head, engulfed in curlers, is tilted all the way to the left, eyes shut and mouth hung open, so Eddie finds he’s in the clear. 

He steps carefully back towards the mint green hanging phone, avoiding the creaky floorboard to the left, and dials Richie’s number. It’s in these moments that Eddie is extra grateful for his photographic memory, because he wouldn’t want to risk going to retrieve the crumpled piece of notebook paper tucked inside his backpack with the number to Richie’s house phone scribbled in blue ink. Eddie covers the receiver with one hand as he sneaks glances down the stairs, just to be safe, and grows antsier with each passing ring. The adrenaline rushing around inside of him showing itself in tapping fingers and bouncing heels. 

The phone rings six times, two rings before it goes to voicemail and half a second before Eddie gives up, and then Richie answers. 

“Tozier Residence, how may I direct your call?” Richie asks, muffled by the shitty speaker, sure, but still so _him_ that Eddie’s chest inflates a bit. 

“Hey Richie,” Eddie replies, just loud enough to not be a whisper. 

“Eds?”

“Who else?” 

“Eddie!” Richie says, or truthfully exclaims, and Eddie flinches back instinctively to avoid the reverb. “Hey ba - bro. Hey bro. My dude. How are you?” 

Eddie flushes, laughs as quietly as possible into the crook of his shoulder, “Hey _dude_ , I’m doing good. You?” 

“Splendid now,” Richie retorts, but it’s closer, a little quieter, a little gentler. Eddie smiles secretly to himself. “What’s up?” 

“Nothing,” Eddie says automatically, before he pinches at his forehead, cringing at himself. Once again, not really what he meant to say. Richie has a way of tripping him up. 

“Nothing, huh?” Richie questions. “Okay. Hey, Eddie?” 

“Yeah?”

“Why are we whispering?” 

“Mom’s downstairs,” Eddie sighs. “Gotta be quiet, you know the drill.” Which, he doesn’t, because they haven’t spoken on the phone before. Or they have, but not as a - whatever they are. Boyfriends. A couple. Friends who kiss. He’s starting to get a headache. 

“Ah, I see.” Richie hums wisely. “Secret mission, I can dig. So, you call just to hear my voice or somethin’?” He asks, and it’s meant to be something playful, a joke to rile Eddie up, but it’s so close to the truth that it eases Eddie instead.

Eddie leans his forehead against the wall next to the phone, letting his eyes slip closed and an exhale to fall from his nose. “Yeah, pretty much.” 

“You - Um. Woah.” Richie fumbles, and Eddie can practically feel his cheeks turning red through the phone. Eddie smiles so wide he has to clamp his teeth onto his bottom lip to anchor himself. “I’m glad you did.” Richie’s voice breaks through, now almost identical to Eddie’s pitch. 

Eddie nods even though Richie can’t see him, opening his eyes and lifting his head off the wall. “I actually wanted to ask you something.” 

“Sure, anything,” 

“Would you go to the Aladdin with me this Friday?” Eddie nearly spits out, the force causing the volume of his voice to increase towards the end, and he turns around quick to confirm Sonia didn’t hear it. She’s snoring heavily now, hands twitching in her sleep, and Eddie breathes a sigh of relief. 

“What, just the two of us?” Richie asks. 

“Mhm. That’s what I was thinking, anyway.” Eddie hums.

Richie is silent for just a moment, a split second that feels like it drags on forever. Eddie goes to hold his breath and in the silence hears nothing but static, leading him to assume Richie is doing the same. 

“Like a date?” Comes Richie’s reply, quieter than all the others have been. Eddie looks up towards the ceiling, teeth beginning to gnaw on the skin of his bottom lip. There’s a tinge to Richie’s voice that Eddie can’t dissect, over the phone or at all, but it sounds hopeful. Rosy.

“Yeah,” Eddie answers simply, but it falls out like a laugh. Richie is quiet again, for a little longer, and as the seconds tick by the more impatient Eddie grows, foot tapping into the ground with more and more vigor. “Richie, did I break you?” 

There’s a strangled noise that carries through Eddie’s ear, and a part of him is worried and another part feels strangely confident. There’s an art, to rendering Richie Tozier speechless. Eddie wants to master it. 

“Yeah. No. Uh, no. Not broken.” Richie stumbles, and Eddie stifles a laugh as best he can. 

“Is that a yes?” Eddie questions, although he’s sure he doesn’t have to. He’s sure he knows the answer. 

“Yes.” Richie says, firm. “Yes, of course. Totally. Sounds like a plan -”

“Richie, breathe,” Eddie retorts. Half-mocking and half-serious at the same time. 

“Breathing,” Richie replies, still sounding rough and tight, like his throat is dry. 

“Good, keep it up, okay? No use in scheduling a date with a dead man.” Eddie says easily, just because he can.

“Mhm.” Richie replies, muffled and croaky. Richie clears his throat, and Eddie can hear him take one long, deep breath. It crackles through the phone and makes the hair on Eddie’s neck stand up. “Okay, fuck, I gotta go. Mom needs help washing up.” He says, all in one breath. 

Eddie sighs, even though he knows he doesn’t have much longer either. “No sweat, Rich. I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow.” Richie says, and then, barely there, “I miss you.” 

Eddie’s heart ricochets, thumps hard twice and speeds up indefinitely, and he nearly huffs in frustration because Richie _definitely_ did that on purpose. If anyone had already mastered the art in rendering someone speechless, it was Richie. Eddie didn’t stand a chance. 

“I miss you too.” Eddie whispers. 

There’s a rough inhale, and then a muffled shout, before Richie says, “Shit, alright, I’m hanging up. Bye, Eds.” 

“Bye, Richie.” Eddie replies, keeps the phone against his ear to hear the _click_ , before he collapses against the wall. Pivots on his feet so his back leans against it, and he takes one last look downstairs before he lets himself go. Presses a hand against his flaming cheeks while covering his mouth with the other, and Eddie can _feel_ that he looks like an idiot. Blissed out and smiling into space. It feels better than anything. 

Eddie pushes himself off the wall, and just as he’s about to turn the corner to his bathroom, the phone rings again. He jumps, and there’s a few seconds where his heart races and he stares at it incredulously, a little offended, like the telephone's intention was to give him a heart attack, before he takes two big steps to grab it. 

“Hello?” Eddie asks, heart still pounding, not bothering to spare a glance behind him.

“Eddie, hey,” Richie says, breathless. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, “Jesus, Richie you -”

“Tomorrow, come to school early. Like - like fifteen minutes, okay?” 

“Early? Wait, what -”

“Sorry mom, forgot something!” Richie yells, a little further away, before he’s back again. “I have to go. Just come, alright?” 

Eddie flounders for a moment before he gathers his bearings, “Okay. Sure, I’ll see you then.” 

“Great. Have a good night, Eds.” Richie breathes, and then the _click_ of the receiver comes once again. 

Eddie hangs the phone up, staring at it accusingly, as if daring it to ring again. It doesn’t, and after a few seconds Eddie relaxes. “The fuck,” he mutters under his breath, sighing heavily. 

“Eddie?” Sonia calls, just as piercing and accusatory as always, and Eddie flinches again, for very different, edging just over a lot worse reasons.

“Yes, ma?” He responds, placing a hand over his racing heart. After tonight he needs a fucking get away. A two week trip with no cell service and no one else except Richie, maybe. Somewhere nearby where he can’t make surprise phone calls or take Eddie’s breath away. Eddie’s too young to die of heart failure. 

“Who’s that calling?” 

Eddie huffs, quietly, because he isn't an idiot. “Just Beverly, mom. We’ve got a project due Friday in History.” The lie slips out easily, too much so, but the truth is harder to deal with. He can only really hope she wasn’t awake to hear him say Richie’s name. 

“Alright.” She relents. “You best be going to bed, sweetie. It’s nearly nine o’clock. You know eight hours is the -” 

“Required amount of sleep for a growing boy,” Eddie echoes with her, under his breath. “I’m going, mom. Goodnight.” He finishes louder, so she can hear. There isn’t any response, so Eddie staggers to his bedroom to throw on his pajamas. 

Slipping under his covers, Eddie feels jittery. Cold and a little shaky, but not like he can feel a flu coming on. Nervous energy, he diagnosis. Though the warmth in his stomach, the tingling in his fingertips, feel new. Healthy, even. Not calming but not uncomfortable, and although he figures he’ll have a hard time sleeping, all he has to do is focus on the slow spreading heat into his limbs for a minute or two before he’s out cold. It’s the best he’s slept in a while. 

\--------------------------

Eddie nearly has to let his mother tailgate behind him in her beat up old Saturn in order to bike to school early the next morning, but he manages to squirm free. He leaves an hour early as opposed to thirty minutes but not on purpose - he’d given himself extra time in case persuading Sonia took longer than it had. It’s a good thing, too, because any and all pent up frustration from having to placate her is gone halfway through the ride. By the time he’s two minutes away from the school he’s nearly laughing to himself, breathing the morning air deep into his lungs. 

Derry is okay, Eddie decides, when everything is whizzing by. A lot of green and blue and red, streaking past the sides of his eyes. It’s only when you stop does it all catch up. The loneliness, the mundane of it all. That prickling feeling that’s submerged below it, foul and evil. 

Pulling into the lot and seeing Richie’s car parked, dusted silver and completely alone, helps that feeling subside. Hard to feel like something’s wrong when too many things feel utterly right. Eddie skids his bike to a stop, circling it toward the bike rack and leaning it there lazily. He can worry about locking it up later. 

He walks towards Richie’s car, and through the slightly tinted window he can see Richie, leaned back against the seat with his eyes closed. Eddie steps up and taps his finger on the driver side window, expecting Richie to jump but not being surprised when Richie doesn’t. His eyes open slowly and he smiles softly, like he was expecting Eddie. Eddie curves around the car as he hears the doors unlock, slipping into the passenger side door. Richie’s car is warm, comforting, filled to the brim with the musky scent of Richie’s cologne and the ocean breeze air freshener. 

“Hey,” Eddie starts once he’s seated, closing the door. “What’s so important-” and he doesn’t get a chance to finish. Richie rushes in, curling one hand softly against Eddie’s jaw and connecting their lips. Eddie makes a surprised sound deep in his chest, his stunned position of wide eyes and tense shoulders melting away within seconds. His eyes flutter closed, and he places both of his hands onto Richie’s face, stroking the sharp angles above the apples of his cheeks. 

The kiss doesn’t last long, but Eddie can feel what Richie puts into it. It’s a _hello,_ an _I missed you_ , and a _this is our one chance to do this_ all in one. Richie’s lips are soft and warm, and he tastes like toothpaste with the slightest hint of smoke underneath. Like he smoked a cigarette and brushed his teeth afterwards because he knew he’d be kissing Eddie. It’s intoxicating. Eddie doesn’t know if that’s _because_ Richie plans for this or because it’s just Richie, and either one is sort of humiliating to pin on himself. 

Richie pulls away eventually, breathing a little labored, and Eddie chases his lips to peck them twice more. Wallows in Richie’s smile against his mouth. Eddie opens his eyes in time to see Richie flop against his door dramatically, one arm thrown over his eyes as he fans himself with another. 

“Shut up,” Eddie snickers, shoving at his shoulder lightly. 

Richie laughs, loud and brash, and it warms everything around him. “Missed you, shortstuff.” Richie says, and that warms everything too. 

“I can tell,” Eddie jokes, flipping the sunshade down to try and tame his now mussed hair in the overhead mirror. Richie reaches over and ruffles it. “Hey! Asshole.” 

“C’mon, Eds! It looks good like that.” 

“Looks like I got mauled by a grizzly bear.” 

“A sexy one?” Richie goads, eyebrows wiggling manically. 

Eddie eyes him, long and suffering, before flipping him off. Richie sets off on another bout of sporadic chuckles. 

“What’s with you today?” Eddie asks, instead of doing something embarrassing. Like begging Richie to never stop laughing or flinging himself across the glovebox to quiet Richie with his own mouth. 

Richie shrugs, but he’s biting back a grin and his eyes are wild and bright. “Happy, I guess.” 

Eddie softens. “Yeah? Good.” 

Richie looks taken aback, for a second, but he recovers quickly. He always does. “How about you?” 

“How ‘bout me, what?” Eddie asks, combing his hair distractedly with his fingers, desperately trying to get it to lay flat. 

“Are you happy?” 

Eddie’s already looking at himself in the mirror, so he sees in real time the way his face relaxes into an expression he doesn’t recognize. His eyes go squinty and his cheeks a little pink, and the corners of his mouth turn upwards. It all happens quickly, involuntarily, and it’s an expression he’s worn before. _So that’s what it looks like_ , Eddie thinks to himself, but he doesn’t elaborate. Watching his own demeanor change with three words from Richie is overwhelming enough as it is. 

Eddie shuts the mirror, shifting so he’s facing Richie. “I am,” He says, candidly. “I’m really happy.” 

And if Eddie thought watching his own expression shift into pure adoration was a lot, watching Richie’s do the same is a whole other ballpark. Enough so that Eddie does end up flinging himself over the glovebox, banging his knees as he pulls Richie closer. Trying to imprint that expression into mind forever. 

It’s only later, in the passenger side seat of Richie’s car with his bike in the trunk on the way home, that he realizes Richie never told him why he’d shown up an hour before first bell in the first place. 

Most surprising of anything, Eddie couldn’t care less. 

\--------------------------

The week passes quickly, slowed only by the anticipation of having something to look forward to, and before Eddie knows it he’s in the passenger seat again, driving downtown. Richie drives carefully, always and even more so with Eddie in the car, but he’s distracted. Not worryingly so - but Eddie notices. Eddie thinks he’d notice anything as long as Richie was involved. 

Richie keeps glancing between the street in front of him and Eddie, biting back a smile. Eddie wants to tell him to stop, tell him there isn’t any reason to hide his teeth, but his throat feels dry. Richie’s wearing this hideous lime green sweatshirt and khaki cut-off shorts, and it’s an awful outfit. It’s distracting, and too-bright and mismatched, and Eddie can’t stop looking at him. His black hair is growing, curling longer around his ears. His freckles span the side of his neck and further down, probably, underneath his clothes. And Eddie’s sure he’s noticed that, before, but it’s different now. Different because he no longer has to sneak glances, different because he’s allowed to look. 

Which probably has something to do with Richie’s skittish glancing, now that he thinks about it. Because Eddie is pressed sideways in his seat, right leg folded up, and watching Richie drive. Everytime Richie goes to look at him, Eddie gets a suspicion like maybe that’s his turn to blush, avert his eyes, pretend like he isn’t staring, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Because he’s allowed to look. Because Richie’s eye-catching always but now even more. Because they’re going on a _date._

Richie’s doing all the blushing anyway, everytime he catches Eddie’s eye. Half because he doesn’t want Eddie to know he’s looking but also because Eddie won’t look away. And Eddie can’t be bothered, not when watching Richie’s face and the top of his neck flash between pale to pink to pale again is as captivating as it is. 

They’re about three minutes away from the theater when Richie does it again, turns to look at Eddie while at a red light, and he still blushes and he still moves his head quickly, something like a scoff falling out of his mouth. 

Richie makes eye contact again a split second later, saying, “What are you looking at?” 

Eddie smiles, can’t help but smile, and he should lie. Or tell another truth. Tell Richie his sweatshirt is ugly, because it is. Tell Richie he’s got mustard on the side of his chin from the sandwich they split at lunch, because he does. 

“You’re kind of gorgeous.” Is what falls from his mouth instead. And it’s embarrassing - it’s a humiliating kind of thing to say. It’s not the kind of thing you say to a guy, not really. It’s dramatic and cheesy and a lot of other things. It’s also the truth, though. The one he'd been thinking, anyway.

Richie groans, and he rolls his eyes, but his cheeks go even redder and he stops pretending not to smile, spilling into a grin that takes up half his face. 

“Jesus Christ.” Richie mumbles, his voice rough and pinched, and Eddie’s smile turns cheeky. 

“The lights’ green.” Eddie says to Richie. 

“Cockblock.” Richie says to the light. 

\--------------------------

The date goes well, surprisingly so.

The theater is far from empty, so they sit in the front row and hold hands underneath Richie’s jacket. Eddie feels a little frustrated, with that aspect of things. Wishes they could be like a normal couple, the kind who sits in the middle and spreads all over one another. They can’t, because they’re two boys and this is Derry, but it ends up not mattering anyway. Richie’s glasses reflect the screen and his eyes light up, and his face peaks and falls at all the right parts, and his grip on Eddie’s hand is warm and he runs his thumb up Eddie’s knuckles, so it’s kind of perfect. 

Eddie spends a lot of the movie watching Richie, and when it’s done Richie pulls him into the bathroom to press him up against a stall and kiss him until Eddie’s left breathless with red lips. 

They go to the diner, as planned, and that’s kind of perfect too. They sit outside across one another at a table for two, and no one suspects a thing. The diner is busy but not overtly, busy for Derry in general and not so much for a Friday night, and they’re alone outside. The waitress takes their orders, and she’s got a spark in her eye like she might have an idea, but she doesn’t say anything. 

Eddie orders a burger and Richie gets chicken fingers, because he’s a child living in an eighteen year olds body, and they split a banana milkshake as secretly as possible. It feels like rebellion, the whole night does, shoving his face full of greasy food and smiling soft behind his cup. His mother would hate it. The date part, the sharing part, the processed deep fried food part. It only makes Eddie love it more. 

Richie pays for the food because Eddie paid for the movie, and cheeky grin the waitress gives them when Richie offers makes it clear she knows, but Eddie doesn’t care. They walk back to Richie’s car, elbows linked and taking big swinging steps, and Eddie laughs so loud it echoes through the garage. 

They drive to Eddie’s house, the sun set but the sky still that ashy blue, a taste of what Summer will bring. and Richie’s fingers tap the steering wheel to the beat of whatever songs playing. Eddie doesn’t know it, but the heavy guitar and banging drums are easy enough to move too, and he head-bangs dramatically while Richie laughs, cheers him on. It doesn’t match the mood, it’s not soft or sweet or romantic, but watching Richie mouth the words makes up for it. 

Usually, watching his house come into view as Richie pulls up settles like a rock in Eddie’s chest, but he’s too high on the night for it to happen. Richie turns the music low as he pulls up, the song changing to something more acoustic. Eddie unbuckles his seatbelt, turning his body towards Richie. They look at one another for a second, smiles growing until Eddie giggles, blushes, looks away. 

“I had a lot of fun,” Richie says, grinning. 

“Me too, Rich.” 

Richie stares for a second, a little awed, before saying, “You are too, you know.” 

Eddie tilts his head, “I’m what?” 

Richie smirks, “Kind of gorgeous.” 

Eddie scoffs, “Shut up,” 

“Nah, I’m good.” 

Richie reaches out and takes Eddie’s hand again, looking behind Eddie’s head before he meets his eyes. 

“Can I kiss you?” Richie asks. Eddie’s heart beats heavily in his chest. 

“You don’t have to ask.” Eddie replies.

Richie shrugs, starts to thumb over Eddie’s knuckles again. “Seemed like the proper thing to do. Since we’re on a date, and all. Thought I’d be a gentleman, but _fine,_ be-”

“ _Richie._ ” 

Richie leans forward, cupping Eddie’s cheek gently, smiling against his mouth. Eddie smiles too, because Richie is nothing if not contagious. The kiss is too short, Richie breaking away before he presses back in and then pulls away completely. 

“You should go inside,” Richie murmurs. 

Eddie sighs heavy, “Yeah, I should.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow? We’re going to Mike’s outhouse.” 

Eddie nods, “Pick me up?”

“You know it, pipsqueak.” Richis says. 

Eddie flips him off, opening his door and stepping out into the cool air. His tennis shoes crunch in the gravel, and he’s one step away from his front porch before Richie calls to him. 

“Hey, Eddie!” 

Eddie spins around, looking at Richie’s outstretched form in the passenger side window. 

“What’s up?” 

Richie smiles sweet, “Thank you, for tonight.” 

Eddie softens, “My pleasure.” 

Richie turns up the radio and puts the car in drive, waving as he pulls out. Eddie watches him go, a little dizzy and warm, before he walks up the steps and unlocks his door. His house smells like chemicals, cleaning product and bleach, and Eddie misses the damp smell of dirt and the musky smell of Richie’s car like a limb. 

He passes by his mother, snoring in front of the television, as he goes to his room. Eddie knows that when graduation comes, he’s leaving. It isn’t so much Derry as it is her, and everything she represents. He hopes that distance will make the heart grow fonder, or whatever. That his leaving will heal something within them, but he also knows better. Eddie knows that she’ll cry, and beg, and probably threaten him, when it comes down to it, and that all of that will probably split the divide even further. Might be enough to break them completely. 

But it’s fine, because he’s got himself, and five great friends, and Richie too. Richie who is still his friend but also more than that, and who knows Eddie more than his own mother. Richie who is bright and brave and good. Eddie’s got the family he’s found as opposed to the one he was born with, and it's all it's chalked up to be, really. Maybe even more.

\--------------------------

**3.** _Spring, 1993_

It’s a few days later when Eddie finds himself curled up on Richie’s bed, thirty minutes until he absolutely _has_ to be home before his mom loses her shit, playing with Richie’s hands. Richie is on his back, head bobbing to music that isn’t playing anywhere else except inside his brain, trying and failing to ignore Eddie’s gaze. It’s in vain, because Richie seems to turn his head every other second to find Eddie still looking, and Eddie can’t necessarily stop when watching red bloom on Richie’s pale cheeks is as intoxicating as it is. Eddie stares. A lot. He knows he does, but there’s something so satisfying about being allowed to watch Richie freely after spending too long forcing himself to avert his eyes. Pretending to look somewhere else and faking like every single part of him didn’t gravitate towards Richie. 

Eddie doesn’t have to pretend anymore, and it’s addicting. He can cup Richie’s face whenever he feels like it, whisper compliments into his ear and make him shiver, press his lips against Richie’s just for the hell of it. It’s new and dizzying, being allowed the things he’s wanted. Mostly, Eddie just likes to look. Likes to memorize the curves of Richie’s nose and jaw from all angles, figure out every color that shines through the black of Richie’s hair in the sun. Eddie likes more than anything to watch the way Richie moves, because he never seems to stop. Richie’s always pattering his fingers or jiggling his leg or shifting his eyes everywhere around the room, sometimes all three at once. Eddie lets his eyes linger and tries desperately to say everything he’s still too shy to speak aloud. Things like _Your bitten nails should drive me crazy and they don’t, and that scares me._ Things like _You’ve got constellations in your freckles and forests in your eyes._ Things like _I like you more than I should._ He wonders when the hell he got possessed by the protagonist in one of his mother's awful romance novels, but at least he's not making an idiot out of himself. Not outloud, that is. Because he's definitely making his own cheeks flush with embarrassment every single time his brain spits another wax-poetic statement on the green flecks in Richie's eyes. 

And if Eddie says things with his eyes, Richie says it with touch. Eddie had noticed that Richie was a clingy sort of person, always hanging off of Bev’s shoulder and burrowing his fingers in Stan’s curls. Eddie had noticed the distinct way Richie never did it with him, never let his hands grasp Eddie or his arms wrap around him unless Eddie had initiated the touch. Of course this was all _before_ their recent development, and Eddie knows (or thinks he does, anyway) that Richie avoided touching him not because he wasn’t comfortable but because Richie puts everything he also can’t say into how he reaches out. Richie allows himself to touch Eddie now, and that’s addicting too. There’s always a hand on the small of Eddie’s back or the nape of his neck, soft and warm and grounding. Always patterns drawn into Eddie’s forearms by chipped nails that shouldn’t make him shiver but do. And when they’re alone, after a kiss or during one or before, a calloused palm stroking his cheek, so gently it’s almost impossible, something like disbelief or amazement in every movement. 

It’s as Eddie lays there, stroking the skin between Richie’s thumb and index finger and thinking about what’s changed from then and now, that he allows his brain to dissect another thought. It’s one that has existed in his head for awhile, not at the top of the list of priorities but not at the bottom either. Hovering somewhere in the middle of his head, the slight pressing question of _What is this?_

Eddie hadn’t been stressing on it, not entirely. This thing with Richie was new, and exciting, and not really delicate but he still sort of wanted to hold it close to his chest and keep it safe. He’s had a handful of relationships in his life, two before this, to be exact. Neither of which ended well or started as good as this had, so he doesn't feel the need to rush into anything. Much less slap a label onto it that he’d have to live up to.

But, he had thought about it. About calling Richie his boyfriend, or whatever. Having something like that to think about rather than talk about, because he’s not sure who he’d tell, but the thought is still nice. Eddie had never really claimed a title like that on any of his previous _things_ before, and the idea of he and Richie making something official out of secret presses of lips and cheesy admirations makes his heart stutter. 

Eddie sits up, legs out in front of him on Richie’s bed, and asks “What is this?” before he can stop himself. it’s soft toned and a little breathless, and Eddie isn’t really sure when the voice he used for Richie became that as opposed to brash and sort of biting, but it feels right enough. He also isn't sure when he adapted Richie's habit of speaking without thinking.

Richie looks caught off guard. Eyebrows up and mouth in the shape of an O, moving around words that don’t come out. Eddie can’t really read his expression. 

“What?” Richie asks back, because his forte is answering questions with more questions. “What is what?”

Eddie gets caught between a noise of frustration and a snort, which leads to him all but choking on his own saliva. He coughs rough three times, blushing while Richie sort of pats slash pounds on his back each time. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mumbles, voice scratchy. “The - um. Like, what are we doing? You and me, I mean.” 

Richie’s still looking at him warily, carefully, and Eddie regrets - everything, sort of. Any and all things that lead up to this interaction. 

“Sorry,” Eddie says, after a moment of silence. “Sorry. Forget I asked, it’s a stupid question.”

“Not stupid,” Richie says quietly, “I just don’t want to answer wrong.” 

“Wrong?” Eddie asks.

“I mean, like if you’re asking because you don’t want to do this anymore, I don’t want to-”

“That’s not why I’m asking.” Eddie says quickly, and he should have better manners, but the idea that Richie would ever think Eddie doesn’t _want_ this, _want_ him, is like trying to shove a square peg inside of a circle hole, like those toys you play with in kindergarten in between learning the alphabet and recess. It doesn’t work. 

“Oh,” Richie says, smile growing a bit, “Oh. Well, that’s good.” 

Eddie does laugh now, short and quiet. “Yeah, I’d like to think so.” 

“So… Why are you asking?” Richie says, and there’s a lilt of teasing to his voice. 

Eddie blushes, crimson cherry, his throat going sort of dry. “Shut up,” He says automatically, and then, “I mean, are we like boyfriends? Friends who kiss? Or is it just like - like are we only doing this ‘cause it’s easy?” 

Richie’s got a look on his face that Eddie also can’t read, something warm and a little puzzled. “I think we both know this hasn’t been easy.” 

Eddie swallows. “You have a point.” 

“I think,” Richie says again, slowly, “That boyfriends is a good thing to call it.” 

“Yeah?” Eddie confirms, looking up to meet Richie’s gaze. “You wanna be my boyfriend, Richie?” And now the teasing lilt has crossed over the bedspread, seeping into Eddie’s tone. It’s masking something in his voice though, something a little softer, more vulnerable.

Richie hears it, notices it because he notices everything, and says, “For awhile, I think.”

They look at each other for a moment, smiling before it spills into laughter. The embarrassed giddy kind of laughter, where your cheeks get hot and your laughing at yourself more than anything. Eddie leans over and presses his lips against Richie’s, more teeth than lips, until Richie sobers up and kisses him back, hand against Eddie’s jaw. It gets a little more serious, a little more intense, as the seconds go by. Lips pushing softly and mouths opening. 

And then Eddie’s watch goes off, a timer for medication he no longer takes beeping incessantly because he hasn’t figured out how to turn it off. Eddie jumps, and Richie flinches, his teeth clashing together slightly right on Eddie’s bottom lip. Eddie pulls away with a little hiss, fingers coming up to his lip and tongue tasting for blood. There isn’t any, which is good, because he’s pretty sure he’d have a conniption if he started bleeding all over Richie. 

“Shit! Shit, sorry,” Richie says quickly.

Eddie shakes his head, “It’s okay, didn’t hurt.” And that’s kind of a lie, but Eddie also has a sneaking suspicion based on the burning of his cheeks and the buzzing in his abdomen that it’s not something he minds. That maybe Richie could bite at his lips more often. That’s another frightening, electric thought, but he’ll dwell on it later. 

“Fucking watch,” Richie mutters, smiling secretly, “Always ruining the moment.” 

Eddie snickers, “That’s never happened before, dimwit.” 

Richie shrugs, throwing his arm over the front of Eddie’s chest and pushing him back until he’s lying down again. Eddie turns onto his side, facing Richie, and Richie mimics the position. His arm is still lying over Eddie’s frame, fingers moving in slow soothing circles against his t-shirt. It’s more comforting than it should be. 

“When do you have to go?” Richie asks. 

Eddie’s nose wrinkles and he huffs, checking his watch. “Like twenty minutes, I think.”

Richie pouts dramatically, “Boo, that’s no fun. What am I supposed to do without you here to distract me from chores and homework?” 

“I’m not distracting you from shit.” Eddie counters sarcastically, “I’ve told you to start on your chem homework three times since I got here.” 

“Oh, really?” Richie says, raising his eyebrows, “You aren’t distracting me?” 

“Nope.” Eddie says with a pop, tongue sticking out at Richie for a second. “You can do whatever you want, no one’s stopping you.” 

Richie, eyebrows still up to his forehead, which he should stop doing because he’s way too fucking young for wrinkles, starts to pull away. “Okay then, since I have free reign. I’m just gonna go and do the dishes-” 

And Eddie is a lot of things, counterintuitive and hypocritical, but he’d never considered himself clingy. That is until Richie sits up and Eddie’s heart clenches because he misses Richie’s warmth and his hands and the way he smells. All of which means that Eddie _is_ counterintuitive, hypocritical, clingy _and_ in way too deep, because he whines in the back of his throat and pulls Richie back down, wrapping his arms around Richie’s shoulder. Koala-ing himself around Richie’s body and stuffing his face into Richie’s neck, inhaling deep. Richie smells like tobacco and minty cologne and faintly of sweat, which should be gross and it isn’t. Eddie could get drunk on it. 

Richie laughs, a little breathless, but he pulls Eddie closer and pats his head. Pats diminish into this way too soft stroking motion, and Eddie sighs into Richie’s skin. “You’re so cute,” Richie mumbles, like a secret, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Eddie looks up, meets Richie’s gaze. Richie has a habit of looking a little disbelieving and in awe, whenever their together like this. Like he doesn’t think it’s real, or that he deserves it. Like Eddie is the one who’s constantly throws Richie for a mind-spinning loop as opposed to the other way around. It’s another thought that entrapts itself in Eddie’s head a lot. That Richie could think he’s anything but deserving of something like this. That Richie also finds Eddie surprising and intoxicating and a little dream like. 

Eddie wants to say all of this, all the time. Wants to cut himself open and spill his guts in front of Richie to make him understand, that this is as _real_ and enveloping and overwhelming for Eddie as it is for Richie. He can’t, though. Because it’s too much too honest way too soon, and Eddie is scared. More than anything else. 

So, instead, he says “I’m not cute, shut up.” 

Richie snorts like Eddie’s joking, buries his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck and shoulder and presses a sweet kiss there. Eddie flames. 

“You are,” Richie mumbles, and then lifts his head to look at Eddie again. “And you’re a little shit,” He continues, moving closer and closer till their noses are touching, Eddie going a little cross eyed trying to look at Richie’s mouth. Richie laughs again, and Eddie can feel his breath on his lips. “And you’re also incredibly distracting.” 

And Eddie can’t really help it, because Richie’s voice goes a little raspy and he can smell that tobacco-mint-sweat mixture and he can see the way Richie’s tongue juts out to wet at his bottom lip subconsciously, so Eddie reaches up and pulls Richie’s face to his. Entangles his hands in Richie’s hair and squashes their mouths together again. Richie inhales sharp, moving easily and falling forward, his hands bracing him as he slides his lips against Eddie’s. The angle is awkward, Richie sort of sitting up but not really and Eddie sideways on the bed. But, like all things, they make it work. 

Eddie, with a stroke of bravery, parts his mouth a bit. Richie does the same, and Eddie lets his tongue slip into Richie’s mouth, licking into it. And, okay, Eddie has made out with boys before. Hell, it’s why he’s even in Derry to begin with. But when it came to Richie, Eddie had sort of held the reigns tightly. Taking everything slowly, soft presses of lips and barely there pecks. Maybe to make everything last longer. Maybe because Eddie has noticed that Richie gets him flustered and breathless with the softest most innocent of kisses, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself if taking things further was going to end up feeling as good as he thought it was. And now, as he’s taking said things further, he was right on the fucking money. Because Richie’s had his tongue intertwined with Eddie’s for about fifteen seconds and already Eddie feels like he’s run out of air. Like his lips are tingling. Like he has no choice but to grasp Richie a little more firmly, pull at the back of his ratty old t-shirt. 

Richie pulls back with a smack of lips, leaning over Eddie, red-faced and breathing heavily. His eyes are wide and a little glazed over. The idea that Eddie did that, made _Richie_ blush and go a little fuzzy-headed, is enough to have him nearly surging up to kiss him again. He’s halfway there, actually, propping onto his elbows, but then Richie cups his cheek and the starry, melty look in his eyes makes Eddie forget what he was supposed to be doing. 

“What is up with you today, huh?” Richie asks teasingly, “Whatever I did, remind me to do it more often. Like every day, maybe.” 

Eddie laughs breathily, averts his eyes, “I like you,” he says with a shrug. “You’re my _boyfriend._ And I like you.” He’s aware he’s stumbling, and not making a lot of sense, but can you blame him? Any person who can make sense of their thoughts after kissing someone like that - after kissing Richie Tozier like that - isn’t human, probably. 

Richie goes all soft again, biting at his lower lip to try and muffle his grin. His eyes shift, between Eddie’s mouth and Eddie’s eyes. “I think it’s just ‘cause I called you cute.” Richie says, because being serious may actually kill him. 

Eddie shrugs, smiling because he can’t not smile when Richie looks at him like that, and then he remembers what his plan was. He leans up further, nearly capturing Richie’s lips, and then Richie pulls up again, smiling. Eddie huffs, propped elbows pressing up into hands so he can lean up higher. Richie keeps pulling back, grinning mischievously. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie asks, a little frustrated though everything is sort of muted. Because his head still feels cloudy and his lips are still tingling, and Richie’s got this grin on his face and everywhere around him is kind of blurry. “Stop that, come here.” 

Richie giggles, actually fucking giggles, and Eddie uses his distraction to grasp his head again, pulling Richie down until their lips touch. Eddie sighs into it, something like relief rushing through him at just being able to touch Richie again. It’s hard to get back to where they were, though, because Richie’s lips are stretched and he keeps letting out these giddy breaths of half-laughter. 

Eddie disconnects them, not by much, so their noses are still brushing. “Why are you laughing at me? Knock it off.” If Eddie’s voice were anything but the distracted, adoring tone it is now, the sentence may hold some weight. Unfortunately, Eddie’s voice takes on said tone and matching smile every time he speaks to Richie anymore, so it doesn’t. 

Richie shakes his head, “Can’t tell you, you’ll get mad. It’s also embarrassing… So.” And then he’s leaning back into Eddie’s space. 

Eddie pushes his head away, “No, fuck that, tell me.” 

Richie laughs again, bright and loud. “See! You’re already mad.” 

“I’m not mad!” Eddie balks, the hint of laughter at the edge of it. And then, a little more firmly, as he holds Richie’s face, “Not mad. I could never be mad at you.” 

Richie’s lips part, and he looks at Eddie a little crazily. He sighs, deep, and Eddie feels it everywhere. Richie’s head falls to Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie nearly tweaks his neck trying to look at him, trying to watch the rest of his face flush the color the back of Richie’s neck is now. 

“You’re killing me, dude.” Richie murmurs, like he’s admitting something more. Eddie closes his eyes, turns his cheek to Richie’s hair and lets it wash over him. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” 

“Why’s that?” 

Richie sighs again, dramatic, and turns his head to meet Eddie’s eyes like he can’t help it. Like their gazes are positive and negative magnets. Eddie gets that, more than he’d like to admit. Sometimes it feels like he’ll go crazy if he can’t see Richie. Like he can’t focus on anything else. 

“You’re just sort of… Everything?” Richie says, formatted like a question even if it’s a statement. He turns even redder after he says it, burying his face with a pained groan. 

Eddie stares at the side of Richie’s head, speechless. There’s a lot of things he wants to say. Wants to tell Richie that he’s everything, too. And more. Wants to tell Richie that he’s never felt like this about anything. Wants to tell Richie that, despite almost everything, there’s a handful of words that he wants to say so badly, but they’re so big and mean too much that he can’t even think them in his own head. 

“Kiss me,” Is what Eddie comes up with, and he hopes the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes says it all for him. 

And Richie does, because of course he does. From there Eddie’s lost again. In the slide of their lips and his hands in Richie’s hair, in the contradictory roughness of Richie’s mouth and the slow stroke of Richie’s hand against his cheek. Lost in how - sometimes - it feels like they’re suspended. Like time doesn’t exist and neither does anything else, like maybe the rest of the world falls away when he presses his lips to Richie’s. 

Eddie’s watch goes off again, five minutes or five years later, because he doesn’t know how long it’s been. This isn’t the medication alarm now, it’s the one he set intentionally a week ago to go off at exactly 6:50pm in the event he’s exactly where he is right now. At Richie’s house, a ten minute drive away from his own with curfew at 7. They slip away from each other, and Eddie sighs dejectedly. Richie’s pupils are blown and his mouth is red, a little wet and swollen. Eddie stares at it, and Richie grunts in the back of his throat before he presses in again. Kissing Eddie short and quick one, two, three more times, before he pulls all the way back and stands up. 

Richie sighs, runs a hand through his hair and points accusingly at Eddie. “Told you.” 

“Hm?” Eddie asks, because his brain is no longer working at functioning level and probably won’t until he’s standing outside his front door. 

“Distracting.” Richie answers. 

Eddie laughs, flops against the bed, heart thumping so hard he’s surprised it hasn’t come out of his chest yet. He opens his eyes, and watches Richie tug his sneakers on by his bedroom door. When he’s finished he turns around to find Eddie staring, and he glares playfully. 

“Stop looking at me like that, c’mon, get up.” Richie says, moving closer and poking at Eddie’s calf. “You have to be home in five minutes and you aren’t gonna get there if you keep fucking,” he trails off and gestures vaguely at Eddie. “Biting your lip and staring at me, s’not fair.” 

And Eddie hadn’t been aware that he was doing that, but he has to physically force his teeth to unclench from the skin of his bottom lip so. Oops. Eddie grins at Richie cheekily, forcing himself up to his elbows and tilting his head to the side in mock confusion. “Sorry,” He says with a shrug, clearly not sorry at all. Eddie knows he’s milking it, but he wets his top lip with his tongue. Slow enough to catch Richie’s eye but still quick to where it might not look intentional. 

Richie’s breath hitches though, and he mutters a gravely “Fuck the fuck off,” so Eddie’s guessing he wasn’t too successful in the whole Being Discreet department. 

Eddie lifts himself with a huff, squirming to the edge of the bed to slip his shoes on. They’re old and a little too big, so his feet slide in with ease. He stands up quick, leaning towards Richie and kissing him again because he can’t help himself. He starts off innocent enough, but takes advantage of Richie’s willing mouth to slide his tongue in once more, kissing Richie heavily for a second before pulling away, laughing at Richie’s gaping expression. 

“Drive me home?” Eddie asks easily. 

Richie makes a strangled sound, clearing his throat. “Drive me home, he says,” Richie cracks, voice going a little high pitched in mockery of Eddie, which gets him a slap on the chest, “As if you didn’t just try and suck my soul out through my tongue.” 

Eddie wrinkles his nose at the metaphor, “Don’t say it like that, weirdo.”

“That’s what you did!” 

Eddie shoves him, moves out of his room and down the stairs with Richie behind him, kicking at his heels. Eddie speeds up, waits for the telltale pattering of Richie increasing in speed, before he stops short and lets Richie crash into his back. Richie laughs, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and taking them down the steps. Eddie thinks, not for the first time, that being in Richie’s arms is more comforting than his own bed. 

The drive home is too quick, Richie’s tapes on the radio a soundtrack for Derry outside of Eddie’s window. Eddie had decided that if someone asked him to describe Derry in one word, it would be odd. The buildings differ from too new and too old looking, never appearing as if they belong where their placed. The people are quiet and prudish, and dress old-fashioned despite their age. Eddie hasn’t ever felt like he belonged anywhere, really. New York was too big, too bright, for someone like him. Derry on the other hand, is too small. Crowded and stuffy and against anything having to do with moving forward. He’s yet to be somewhere in the middle of that, but if he had to choose between the two, he’d opt for New York. There’s something in Derry, underneath the misshaped buildings and emerald green trees. Something sick, a little malicious, like if you were to linger in one spot for two long the ground may just open up and swallow you whole. 

The others, and Richie, help make it better though. The six of them are different - unlike anyone else here. They’re all neon, in Eddie’s eyes. Larger than life and saturated colors, kind of like staring into the sun. There seems to be a cloud over everyone else that doesn’t exist over them, like they’ve woken up from the paralyzing sleep the rest of Derry is under a long time ago, or maybe they never fell asleep at all. Eddie can tell, could tell from the first day, that they don’t belong here. They belong somewhere better, a little more bright-eyed and a little more impactful. Eddie can only hope that he’s that way, too. That by finding the rest of them meant he would eventually belong somewhere that could cradle him without smothering him down. 

And Eddie may very well be biased, but Richie more than anyone, stands out. Eddie can’t see Richie in Derry, he doesn’t fit. It’s like Derry is a circle and the rest of them are squares - and everyday the town tries desperately to smooth their edges over and force them into place. Eddie feels like his edges have been smoothed, just a bit. Curving around the corners with every passing second. Richie doesn’t seem like that. He seems like his angles are sharpened every time they're touched. Eddie thinks that maybe, if he clings to Richie hard enough, he can be sharpened too, before he's been rounded out. 

He sees is house in view though, the two story with the walk up front porch in cracked white wood, and feels his corners molded further down. Richie can sense it, not Eddie’s analogy of shapes, but the shift in his mood. Richie turns the music down, brings that same hand up to place on the back of Eddie’s neck as he slows to a stop. Not harshly, like he’s claiming Eddie in the way his mother wants so desperately to do. It’s more grounding, settling, a very quiet reminder that Richie is there no matter what. Eddie leans into it. 

“Home sweet home, chipmunk,” Richie mutters.

Eddie snorts, turning to look at him. “Chipmunk?” 

Richie shrugs. “What, you don’t like it?”

Eddie eyes him for a second, spilling into a small grin, “I don’t hate it.” 

Richie grins back at him, moving the hand off the back of his neck to ruffle his hair. Ruffling turns to a soothing stroking motion, and Eddie sighs. 

“Hey,” Richie says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.” 

“Do you - um - would you want to tell the others? About us, I mean.” 

Eddie considers it. He knows Richie’s asking because for Eddie, it would not only be admitting to a relationship with their best friend but also coming out. Funnily enough, the whole boyfriend aspect feels a lot scarier than the gay part. 

Eddie shrugs, “You don’t think they’d try to kill me if I ever hurt you or anything, right?” 

“Would you?” Richie asks, briefly sincere. 

“Hm?” 

“Hurt me?” 

There’s a quirk to the side of Richie’s mouth like he’s joking, trying to add some levity to the question, but Eddie knows Richie. Knows him well enough to read behind his eyes, which are a little fearful, careful, even. 

Eddie watches him for a second, trying to dig past the dust that clogs his vision whenever he looks at Richie, before he says, with feeling. “Never on purpose.” 

Richie breaks the eye contact, huffing a light laugh and grinning down at his legs. Eddie didn’t know it was possible to want to kiss someone as bad as he does. 

“Well, although I wouldn’t really put murder past them,” Richie snorts, brushing over the moment of honesty. “They just might give you a very stern talking to about treating me right or whatever. But I think they’d be happy for us, you’re good for me.” 

“I’m good for you?” Eddie repeats, preening a little. 

Richie shrugs, blushing, before he looks up at Eddie again. “I’m happy, so.” 

Eddie smiles so hard his cheeks hurt, burying his now red face into his hands and groaning into them. “You’ve gotta stop saying cute shit, I’ll never get out of this car.” 

“That’s the plan,” Richie laughs, hand coming around to pull Eddie’s head so he can plant a kiss into his hair. “So, yeah? You want to tell them?” 

Eddie nods, gazing at Richie. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” 

“You’re sure? Because I don’t want to pressure you into that, you know, and-”

“ _Richie_ ,” 

“What?” 

Eddie looks quickly at his house and the window that overlooks the driveway before he leans over and presses his lips to Richie’s, revels in feeling his smile against his mouth, before pulling away. 

“Of course I want to.” 

Richie nods, smiling secretly to his pant legs before he looks up again, “You want to do it at the Quarry this weekend?” He asks, “You know - in case anything goes left we can just jump off the cliff and hide underwater.” 

Eddie laughs, rolling his eyes. “That’s your solution? Just-” He makes a swooping motion with his hands, “Jumping right in?” 

Richie shrugs, his smile turning to something a little sweeter, “It works, sometimes.” 

Eddie feels like he’s saying something else, maybe referencing a situation he can’t place, but in Eddie’s head it’s the first time they kissed. It’s the confession. Jumping off that peak because it was less scary than staring at the bottom, so Eddie nods. “Yeah, I get what you mean.” 

\--------------------------

It goes well, all things considered. 

They’re at the Quarry when it happens, just like they’d discussed. And Richie walks up to Eddie when Eddie gets there, takes his hand and leads them towards the group. Eddie looks around carefully, cheeks reddening at simply holding Richie’s hand out in public even though it’s nothing. Eddie gauges each of their reactions, glancing down when he catches both Stan and Bev’s knowing little smirks. Ben looks like he’s glowing, surprised smile dawning his cheeks even though his eyes look a little dreamy. Mike has his head tilted, similar to a confused puppy, and Bill just looks confused as a whole. 

“Hey, so,” Richie starts, gesturing between the two of them. “You know?” Eddie turns to look at Richie incredulously, removing his hand from Richie’s grip to settle it on his own forehead, sighing deeply. He hears Stan snort somewhere in front of him. 

“We’re together.” Eddie says with finality, ripping off the bandaid. He raises his head, looking up at each of them with something firm and daring behind his eyes even though he’s sort of scared shitless. “Like - together, together. Dating. I guess.” 

“Y-you’re _gay_?” Bill asks, gawking. The question is obviously directed at Eddie because Richie had done the whole coming out thing. 

“Seriously?” Bev asks before Eddie can answer, looking at Bill with her eyebrows raised. “I mean, c’mon.” She continues, with a gesture at Eddie’s short black running shorts and white Derry Physical Education sweater (Which definitely belongs to Richie, but they don't need to knows that. Even if it says Tozier on the front.) Eddie feels like he should be offended, but something about the whole situation, the dizziness of acceptance makes him cackle loudly, covering his mouth with his hand. 

Richie gets defensive for him anyway, grabbing Eddie’s hand again and interlocking their fingers. “Hey!” 

“Sorry!” Bev says, there’s a laughing edge to her tone, cheeks pink. 

“It’s okay,” Eddie says, a little softly, meeting Richie’s eyes. “It’s okay.” He repeats louder, nodding at Bev and shrugging. Two movements that are actually hard to do simultaneously. “Yes, I’m gay. And dating Richie. Surprise.” 

“Wow,” Bill says, “W-well. Congratulations g-g-guys. That’s awesome.” 

“Sorry,” Stan says, to who, Eddie doesn’t know. “You _really_ didn’t see that coming?”

“What?” Bill asks, mildly offended. 

“Them!” Stan answers, “I mean, you had no idea?” He peeters off into laughter, rubbing at his temples. 

“To be fair, I didn’t either.” Mike says, coming to Bill’s rescue. Bill smiles brightly at him, rasing his hand for a fistbump and recieving a weird look from Mike to which he drops his hand back down with a shrug. “Well, maybe that’s not true.” 

“The f-f-fuck?"

“I’m just saying!” Mike laughs, “I don’t know if I really knew, but. I had an idea, sort of, after we all went to the movies. They were being all weird and giggly at Eddie’s house before I left.” 

“Giggly,” Richie scoffs, “I’m never ‘giggly’. That isn’t a word that describes me.” Eddie turns to him, raising his eyebrows. Richie flushes, averting his eyes and mumbling a quiet little “Shut up.” 

“Thank you, for telling us, guys.” Ben says over everyone else. “I can’t imagine how scary it is to be, you know, so. Thanks.” Eddie meets his warm eyes, smiling a little brittly, because although he’s happy, about everything, it still cuts deep in ways it probably always will. Being different, hated for that fact. Eddie is no stranger to how lucky he is for this reaction. 

“Thank _you_ ,” Eddie murmurs seriously. Then he looks at all of them, making eye contact with every single one and hoping his eyes convey what he can’t say out loud without breaking. “Really, thank you.” 

There are a few mumbled ‘no problems’ and ‘don’t mention its’ before Mike stands, moving towards them with open arms. Eddie laughs helplessly, allowing himself and Richie to be enveloped in warmth. The rest follow, Ben on Richie’s side and Bev on Eddie’s, Stan and Bill forming a back and front wall. It’s cheesy and dramatic, and Eddie feels a little bit like he might cry with how grateful he feels. He swallows the lump in his throat and saves for wrapping his arms wherever he can get them, tilting his head when he feels Richie’s hair brush his neck and setting his cheek on the top of Richie’s head. 

“So,” Bev says once they’ve all pulled away. “Swimming?” 

Eddie nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice, and steps away to remove his sneakers and sweater. Richie crowds him from behind, wrapping his arms to secure Eddie around Eddie’s waist and setting his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” Richie murmurs into his skin. Eddie shivers. 

“Hey,” Eddie replies, tilting his head to look at Richie. Richie’s eyes look a little shiny too, which is comforting. Eddie’s brow still furrows in concern, and he still reaches up to stroke the delicate skin of Richie’s under-eye. 

“Proud of you,” is what Richie says, and Eddie sags against Richie. It’s not something he’s ever really heard before. It’s not a word his mother uses towards him, especially not since moving to Derry. 

“I’m proud of you, too.” Eddie says softly. Richie smiles halfway, leaning down to press his lips to Eddie’s. Eddie wishes his body didn’t fill with something akin to relief whenever he kisses Richie. He also wishes that feeling never stops. 

The kiss doesn’t last long, because this is still new and still scary, and because Stan shouts at them from near the edge, saying “Quit macking on each other, assholes. Come get in the water!” 

Eddie snorts, pulling away from Richie and moving towards the edge, laughing when Richie runs up behind him and lifts him up, spinning them around. Stan has jumped in by time Eddie’s feet have touched the ground again, although he still feels weightless. Richie comes up next to him, pressing his bare shoulder against Eddie’s as he peers down. The water doesn’t look welcoming, not really. It’s still dirty green. But the sun is shining off the rocks and his friends, his best friends, are swimming around, playfully splashing each other, and it feels as safe as it could possibly be. 

Richie reaches his hand out to Eddie wordlessly, and Eddie takes it. They interlock their fingers, they take a deep breath, and on a silent count of three that exists only in their heads, they jump. Together. 

And nothing has changed, really. Eddie swims languidly and tries to keep any thoughts of bacteria and flesh eating, water-dwelling illness out of his mind. Richie still comes up and pushes at his stomach, startling him underwater until he comes up sputtering. He splashes at Stan, which turns into a three against four battle of sweeping hands and waves of nasty water to which he closes his mouth tight less he risk swallowing it. He laughs at Bev’s cracks that Richie looks like a drowned rat and really needs his hair cut, he sits atop Mike’s strong shoulders and shoves at Ben in a game of chicken, he smiles bashfully when Bill meets his eyes, because Bill looks proud too. 

The only difference now, is when Richie comes over and drapes himself over Eddie, Eddie doesn’t push him off. He revels in Richie’s skin against his and the droplets of water that fall from Richie’s hair onto his shoulder. He sneaks around and presses a sweet kiss to Richie’s cheek, and when Ben coos and Richie blushes so hard he hides his head in the lake, Eddie just laughs. 

Later, when Eddie gets out because he hates the feeling of wrinkly fingers, Richie stays swimming. Eddie watches from the bank, arms over his knees, and smiles at how free Richie looks. Richie loves the water, and even if he hadn’t told Eddie that was the case, he'd would still be able to tell. Richie swims with a purpose, but not like a professional. He dives under and pops up and dives under again. He lays flat on his back, eyes closed, peacefully drifting. His eyes go wild and he grins so big it looks like it hurts. Eddie could watch him forever. 

At some point in his wistful staring, he hears someone settle next to him. It takes Eddie a moment to remove his eyes from Richie’s strong, wet shoulders, but when he does he sees Beverly next to him. She grins, all damp red hair and freckles, and Eddie can’t help but to match it. She pulls a cigarette out, offering one to Eddie. When he gives her a deadpan stare she laughs, popping it into her mouth. She lights it, and the smell is something Eddie used to despise. It used to remind him of his mother, in a backwards sort of way, ushering him away from loitering smokers outside of the gas stations in New York, chattering aggressively about how dangerous it is, how bad it is for Eddie’s asthma, how much she hates those ‘dirty cancer sticks’. 

That was before he met Richie. Richie, who smokes less often now because of Eddie, but still smells like tobacco sometimes. Still tastes like smoke and paper. Now, the smell is comforting. It’s warm, and it settles deep in his stomach, and sometimes he has to remind himself to stop inhaling so deep to get a glimpse of Richie. To stop breathing in second-hand nicotine to see Richie, hand outside the window and head bobbing to the music in his car. It doesn’t feel like something that can kill him. He gets it, now, how it could be addicting. 

“You like him an awful lot, huh?” Bev asks, breaking the silence, almost as if she can read Eddie’s mind. Sometimes it feels like she can. Beverly Marsh, with her bright green eyes and her fire red hair and her sly smirks. She feels untouchable, sometimes, all-knowing. 

Which is why, even though Eddie wants to lie, duck his head and shrug, he doesn’t. “Yeah, I do.” 

Bev nods, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing it away from Eddie’s face. “This isn’t really my place to say this, Stan is Richie’s best friend, you know, but-”

“You’re all his best friends.” Eddie cuts her off, because it’s true. There isn’t one bond that’s closer than the next, despite the gaps of time between each. All of them, in Eddie’s opinion, have room to speak on Richie. 

Bev grins a little shyly, nodding again. “We’re your best friends too, you know.” She studies Eddie’s skeptical look for a second, before she shoves him lightly with a little laugh. “I’m serious! Yeah, you haven’t known us very long, whatever. But - well,”

“It’s different.” Eddie fills in for her. 

Bev nods enthusiastically as she inhales again, pointing at him with her index finger. “Different. Right. People here are - you know. And we’re close, all of us. We’re not like the rest of the people here. Neither are you, so.” 

“I try not to be, anyway.” Eddie says. 

“Nah, I could tell when Richie brought you over. He’s - he’s really careful, with who he trusts. He doesn’t just introduce anybody to the rest of us. Not unless they’re in it for the long haul.” Bev says.

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. So I don’t think I need to tell you, like - not to hurt him. I don’t think you’d do that.” 

“I wouldn’t.” Eddie says automatically. 

Bev eyes him, searches him for a second. She seems to find what she’s looking for, that honesty and sincerity Eddie is trying to push through in his expression, because she nods. “But because he’s my best friend, and you are too, I want to ask. Is it serious?”

Eddie tilts his head, “In what way?” 

She thinks for a moment, stubbing out her cigarette. Eddie decides there’s something old about her, ancient, even. Like she knows a whole lot more about everything than anyone else. It’s more comforting than it is intimidating, though. Eddie feels like he can trust her. “Is it - you two - is it something that you think is gonna last a long time? Or is it, like, a spring fling, or whatever. Something that’ll be over in a few months, when college and everything comes.” 

Eddie considers the question even though he doesn’t have to. He moves his gaze from Beverly to Richie, still swimming in the water. He watches as Richie throws his head back when he laughs, watches him splash at Mike. Watches the way Richie closes his eyes against the sun, and how his eyelashes look against his freckled cheeks. Eddie doesn’t really know anything, when it comes to this. He doesn’t know where they're going to go, come the end of the year, if they’ll follow one another or spread across the country. He doesn’t know if this means as much to Richie as it does to him. But Eddie knows what he wants. 

“I’d like to think it’ll last,” Eddie says, still looking at Richie. “I don’t - I’m not doing this because it’s easy. To get experience or whatever, it’s not-” Eddie sighs, turning to look at Bev again. “I like him a lot. More than I’ve ever liked anyone. I don’t want anybody else.” It’s almost too bare, saying that. The kind of honesty you don’t know to be true until you voice it. It’s scary, too, knowing that he means it. It’s only been a month and yet Eddie can’t really see himself... anywhere except exactly where he is.

Bev is smiling at him, something warm and sweet, “Good.” She says, and then, “He likes you too, you know.” 

“I figured,” Eddie says, because he doesn’t know how he’ll deal with the gravity of Richie feeling the same. 

Bev snorts, “Shut up. I mean, it’s like that for him too. I can tell.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks despite himself, knowing he sounds a little desperate and a lot too far gone. He cares less than he thinks he should.

“Yeah.” Bev says. She lights another cigarette. “Treat him right, okay?” 

“I will.” 

“I know.” She takes a puff, then she stands up and brushes herself off. She reaches a hand down, pulling Eddie up when he accepts it. “Kay, now I gotta give him the same spiel.” 

“You don’t have to,” Eddie says, already placating,

“Yeah, I do. What’d I say?” Bev questions, “You’re just as much my best friend as he is.”

Eddie tries, and fails, not to flush. “Thanks,” He says. Bev reaches out and pats his cheek, skirting around him and going - somewhere. He’s not actually sure, because his eyes are back on Richie. Richie catches his gaze, and smiles big and bright, waving at him. Eddie grins back, blowing a kiss that Richie pretends to catch. Because it’s Richie, he does that big and bright too. Miming a hot potato motion with both his hands before he settles and presses it to his chest. 

Eddie snorts, “You’re a dork!”

“You love it!” Richie calls back. 

And Eddie, moving closer to the bank to settle in so the water can lap at his toes, thinks that maybe he does. He’s not really worried about it, though. 

\--------------------------

Later, in the front seat of Richie’s car, he’s sun-soaked and sleepy. He smells like quarry water, grassy and damp, and he’s warm all over. He feels a bit like Summer, something easy and carefree. Even though he knows that he won’t get this again. He has to grow up, and lazy months spent in between school-years will be something of the past. Eddie’s been preparing for it in the same way he never wants it to come. 

But Richie leans over, lays hand against the back of Eddie’s neck, and it’s okay. Maybe that same freedom that comes with Summer can be a lifelong thing once he’s out. He’ll just have to wait and see. 

They’ve found a spot, down the road from Eddie’s house. It’s not really a cliff, and they’re not really supposed to park there, but Eddie doesn’t care. It’s a big hill that dips off into something Eddie has yet to see, because they only come here at night. There’s a shaky wooden fence that protects it, just a barrier against the road. It’s something like the clubhouse, hidden and secret and personal. It makes sense for them, a separate version of a peak where high schoolers come to make out and stargaze. You can’t really see the stars from here, the trees block most of the sky, but Eddie’s never really looking up. 

“Hey,” Richie says softly, “What were you and Bev talking about earlier?” His hand moves from Eddie’s neck to his jaw, and Eddie leans into his because he can’t do anything else.

Eddie shrugs, “Eh, you know. Asked me about us, gave me a lecture never hurting you unless I want my balls cut off. Same old same old.” 

Richie snickers, shoving at Eddie’s shoulder. Richie’s hand drops down to rest on top of the glove box, palm open, like an offering. Eddie intertwines their fingers because he doesn’t like not touching Richie if he has the option to. Eddie intertwines their fingers to meet him halfway. 

“Well, you better hold to it, then.” Richie says, “Wouldn’t want you neutered at such a primal age.” Like most things, there’s something a little more truthful, a little more raw, wrapped inside the comment. A second layer of skin that can’t be touched yet because it’ll sting. That’s okay with Eddie, he’s got time to unwrap everything when it won’t hurt to do so.

“I guess I have to,” Eddie says back, “You know, if only to save my nuts.” 

Richie laughs, squeezes his hand, and then that’s it. They get out and sit on the roof of Richie’s car, and it creaks alarmingly although it doesn’t break, and Eddie presses his lips against Richie’s, his own version of stars, ones that shine brighter than they ever could in Derry.

\--------------------------

**4.** _Spring_ , _1993_

The thing about Derry is, there are only so many things you can do. The list ranges and varies based on who you ask, of course, but no matter what it never really hits double digits. The town small, compact in that suffocating sort of way, and it’s uptown merges with it’s downtown and the nicer areas are relatively indistinguishable from the not so nice ones, and Eddie’s pretty sure that he’s seen everything it has to offer in the short span of time he’s already been here. 

Your options, if you are ever considering moving to middle-of-nowhere Maine, are as follows; There’s one bar, (not including The Falcon), three restaurants (including the diner), one movie theater, one department store, one second-hand store, one supermarket, one library, and one pharmacy. There are three schools, and the community college, obviously, but visiting any of those if you aren’t a student is practically _asking_ for a few more weird glances than normal.

However, if you were to ask Eddie and any other member of the Losers’ Club, your list gets a little bit longer. There’s the Barrens, whose frequenters are limited to the seven of them and a few of Derry’s undesirables (the homeless and druggies alike) and pretty much no one else. There’s the Quarry, which is nearly empty aside from bleeding hot Summer days, although most of the other townsfolk prefer the community pool. Eddie thinks he could probably hold an hour long lecture on how even the water at the Quarry is cleaner than that cesspool of bacteria, but who’s he to warrant more guests if he doesn’t have to? 

Following the more public grounds is the clubhouse, of course, but that holds a Losers Only policy, which is either a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how you look at it. Mike’s outhouse as well, which functions as its own meeting place more than it does a housing option for guests. And last, but not least, the spot that overlooks the back half of Derry a mile or so from Eddie’s house. That’s got its own RichieandEddie policy, though, so you’re sort of out of luck. 

Subtract the two bars and the high-ish end restaurant they’ve never been let into, and you’re left with pretty much the same amount of options. And when it comes to where you and your not-so-secret boyfriend can visit without risk of being attacked, verbal or otherwise, Eddie knows there’s even less. Eddie finds himself at one of five places comfortably if he and Richie happen to be out on what they’ll only admit to each other as a date. 

Today, that happens to be the Aladdin. Probably the riskiest and most public of all of them. They have rules, though. They only see movies on Monday’s, Tuesday’s and Wednesdays. Never Thursday into the weekend, (the first date was an exception) no matter how desolate Derry is. They only see movies in the early afternoon, right after class. Anything later warrants for odd-end date nights from some of Derry’s older and even older-fashioned residents. No new films, no holding hands unless tucked under a jacket, and absolutely no kissing. 

And it sucks, it does, to have to hold themselves so far apart. It’s unfair and rage-inducing and a little tear jerking, if Eddie thinks about it for too long, but honestly? Eddie would do it all and more for the way Richie’s teeth look in the blue-grey light of the screen. Would do it all and more for the way Richie blushes when Eddie presses his hand on the small of his back to maneuver his way to the soda fountain. Would do it all and more, every day for the rest of his life, just to feel Richie run his thumb over Eddie’s knuckles, subconsciously comforting when he doesn’t even know it. 

So yeah, Eddie would love for one day to see a movie on a Friday night and get to kiss Richie on the mouth while they wait for popcorn. He’ll fight every day for it, once he’s out of Derry, regardless if that means Richie’s there or not. But for right now, he counts his blessings on getting to have Richie at all. 

All of that feels a little too big, a little too scary, to speak aloud right now. So instead Eddie presses a kiss to Richie’s mouth before he gets out of the car, safe in the empty parking lot, before looking at Richie and saying, “Last one to the theater is paying for snacks,” and unbuckling his seatbelt, jumping out of the car before dashing to the exit. 

“You fucker!” Richie screams, and Eddie laughs manically, skidding around the corner and nealy running into a mother pushing a stroller, mumbling a very quick and very unlike his usual well mannered demeanor apology as he hears the _Beep!_ Of Richie’s doors locking and his slamming footsteps. The theater is only half a block away, Eddie can see the sign not yet lit in the mid afternoon like a beacon, and he speeds up to reach it. 

It isn’t really a matter of who wins and who loses, realistically. They have a system that came to be without any real discussion - one pays for tickets, the other for snacks, switching every time they go alone without the rest of their friends. Sometimes, secretly, they pay for each other while the group is present anyway. Eddie guesses now that the others know it won’t be so secret anymore, but that's fine. Better than fine, actually. More relieving than anything. Secrecy is only so fun until you’re doing it for the safety of yourself more than you are a game of sorts. 

Either way, none of this stops Eddie from throwing his hands up victoriously as he halts in front of the Aladdin, turning to see Richie just a few paces away, because what Richie lacked in physical stamina he gained in mile long legs. 

Eddie grins mischievously as Richie slows to a walk, arms crossed and pouting. “And the winner of Derry’s Great 100 Meter Dash-”

Richie flips him off, “Shut up,” 

“All the way from New York city,” 

“I think we should have a rematch, actually, and-”

“Earning his prize of shitty popcorn and an hour in a room full of old people fair and square-” Eddie continues over him, voice dropping into something of an old timey news reporter, although that’s Richie’s forte. 

Richie’s pout breaks into brash laughter, and Eddie trails off to watch. Not really on purpose, but his head kind of goes devoid of thought as Richie’s head tilts back and the sound rushes into Eddie’s ears like a wave of water. 

Eddie gains his footing back as Richie pitters off into smaller, weaker breaths of laughter, looking away so he doesn’t make himself too obvious, and finishing his speech with a slightly quieter but no less passionate, “Edward Franklin Kaspbrak!” 

Richie claps slow, sarcasm less prominent where it’s hidden by the warm grin on his face. “You done now?” He asks, and then - like an afterthought - “Is your middle name really Franklin?” 

Eddie shrugs, “Frank, actually. Franklin put more jazz on it though, don’t you think?” 

Richie snorts, “I’ll say.” He gestures towards the front of the theater, to the barren ticketing booth that stays empty until later, “Well, shall we?” 

Eddie grins, sticking his tongue out. “Get your cash out, loser. I’m craving kettle corn this time.” 

"This time," Richie mocks, faux exasperation clear on his face, "Try every time, asshole." 

Eddie shrugs, "You're the one who always buys it for me." 

Richie raises his eyebrows, "I'm not one to take candy from a baby, so to speak." 

Eddie flips him off, not gracing it with a response.

They walk towards the door, side by side, a little closer than they need to be. Or should be, more realistically. Eddie sees Richie’s arm come up in the reflection of the glass doors like he wants to wrap Eddie into it. Eddie tenses just as Richie thinks better of it, and he watches as Richie fakes at itching the back of his neck. 

Eddie opens the door for Richie though, like a gentleman, and when the ticketer makes a comment something akin to _That’s what friends are for, right?_ When Eddie offers to buy the tickets even though that was the plan anyway, he presses his thumb into the pulse point of Richie’s wrist where his hands are linked behind his back, hidden from view, and strokes there soothingly. An apology, maybe, for how things are. Or an assurance, that Eddie always wants to be touching him even when he can’t. Whatever it is, he thinks he makes up for the moment of stifled awkwardness. 

There’s still an hour before the show starts, Eddie isn’t really sure what they’re seeing, had been staring at the space between Richie’s neck and jaw as Richie had asked for tickets. It’s a little after noon on a sunday, though, so it’s probably a re-showing of some insanely old movie that Eddie hasn’t ever heard of and Richie has definitely seen. Eddie doesn’t really mind, hasn’t ever minded. He just likes to be wherever Richie is. 

They wait to get snacks till a little later, partly because lugging around popcorn and drinks is a hassle and also because neither of them have enough money for the refills they will _definitely_ need. Instead, Richie all but pulls Eddie towards the arcade. 

In the same sense that Richie wouldn’t be Richie without a handful of things like his sporadic need to fidget and his dip into accents out of nowhere, Richie also wouldn’t _be_ Richie without the arcade. Eddie remembers the first time he was invited along with the other Losers to the Aladdin, watching as Richie practically skipped inside and threw himself into Street Fighter like it was the last day of his life. Eddie remembers his heart, the traitor, skipping a beat when Richie had smiled something a little more muted than he’s used to now over his shoulder, beckoning Eddie over to play with him. That, coupled with the way he caught Bev and Stan sharing an eyebrow raised glance like they were in on something Eddie would never understand, was enough to leave him feeling a little breathless and clammy-palmed. 

He remembers, of course, getting to be close to Richie. That’s what burns brighter than anything, really. Standing so close for so long, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, their hands bumping and brushing. He’d excused it, tried to ignore it, avoid sinking into it, for as long as he could. But, he also almost kissed Richie on the mouth when they were alone in his driveway that very night, so. Eddie has never been too good at that whole thing. 

And honestly? You’d think that now, knowing what it’s like to kiss Richie, knowing that they’re here not as friends but as a couple, would make being pressed into Richie’s side easier. Would make that ache subside just a bit, ease the longing, or whatever, but it doesn’t. Now, if anything, Eddie wants to kiss Richie more. Because they’re hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder and all bumping hands all over again, and Eddie still aches. He’s selfish like that, always wanting more. Maybe it’s because he knows, now, how easy it would be to distract Richie. How he could trail his fingertips on the nape of Richie’s neck or press his lips to the underside of his jaw and Richie would go slack and forget the game all together. 

And it’s that, coupled with the having what he’d always wanted coupled with the fact that he can’t do anything about it for at least a few hours or until they sneak into the bathroom, that makes Eddie forgo the game at all. Not intentionally, but he’s about three seconds before Richie wins that he realizes his hands haven’t moved and his face has gone all red and hot like he’s already been kissed. Clearly Richie is just as distracting as Eddie knows he himself can be, and that was just the Richie who exists in Eddie’s head. 

Richie wins, because of course he does, and turns to gloat or rub it in Eddie’s face, probably, before he makes eye contact and stops short. In a way, it feels like sometimes their brains are connected, or their bodies. Because Eddie doesn’t say anything, but Richie’s shit eating grin kind of falls in a way that isn’t intentional, not like he’s sad, but like Eddie’s face reads something a little too intense for it. And Richie’s eyes go heady, almost, hot and fluttery, and his cheeks redden. 

“What?” Richie asks, soft and rough around the edges. 

Eddie’s mouth opens, though he doesn't say anything, because he's still just a little too shy and a little too scared to voice the fact that he wanted his mouth on Richie’s an hour ago aloud, even to an empty arcade. He closes it, swallows, licks his lips, feels it more than he sees it when Richie’s eyes trace the movement, and says, “Nothing, you wanna play air hockey?” 

Richie stares at him for a second, swaying, hands clasping together like he’s stopping himself from reaching out. It’s powerful in a way, little things like that. Knowing that Richie wants him too. He clears his throat, “Bet you a burger that I can beat you three times in a row.” 

Eddie grins, one eyebrow raised, “Best two out of three?” 

“You are so on, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie wins, all three matches, in fact, and preens while Richie whines. 

A handful of games later, Eddie comes to find there’s a photobooth just outside of the arcade. 

Well, in all actuality, it’s as they’re walking out with fifteen minutes to waste at the concession stand that it catches Richie’s eye. He stops dead in front of it, consideringly, and Eddie almost keeps walking and talking to an empty space before he notices it. Eddie stops too, because Richie _is_ paying for snacks, after all, and moves to stand next to him. 

It’s an ancient thing for being a relatively new invention, as everything in Derry is. Eddie’s nearly 100% sure it was purchased second-hand too. It’s all scratched up brown wood, a burgundy curtain covered in stains from God knows what, a faded logo barely legible from the top. It looks, for lack of better sentiment, fucking disgusting. Richie looks entranced. 

“Eddie…” Richie says slowly, before he turns toward him, “We have to.” 

Eddie raises his eyebrows, eyeing the dirty curtain and trying to refrain from scrunching his nose in disgust. He isn’t successful. “That looks like life threatening illness waiting to happen.” 

“That’s what makes it fun!” Richie says, tugging on Eddie’s arm like a petulant toddler. “C’mon, you know you want to.” 

“Sit inside something people have definitely had sex in? That sounds like something I want to do?” Eddie questions, which, after he says it, he realizes was the wrong way to go. That’s on him. 

Richie smirks just like Eddie knew he would, leaning closer than he should to mumble, “Wanna mark our territory?” 

“Ew!” Eddie says, louder than necessary, shoving a cackling Richie away. “You are so fucking nasty.” 

“Only for you, baby. Only for you.” Richie says jokingly, grinning playfully. Unfortunately, because Eddie’s brain is directly hardwired to his heart which is directly hardwired to Richie, the only thing that registers is the fact that Richie called him _baby_ , which he hasn’t ever done before. And Eddie can _feel_ it. The way that his heart picks up speed and his eyes go a little soft and wide, the way that his ever present capability for back to back rebuttal has gone out the window. 

Richie notices, because he’s the fucking worst, and his smile turns a little brighter, bashful and pleased, and Eddie _wants_. Wants to kiss Richie senseless, hold his hand, hear him call Eddie every stupid pet name under the sun. Reclaim all the ones his mother uses and have them settle like honey rather than vinegar in the pit of his stomach. 

“We’ve got fifteen minutes till the show,” Eddie says after a beat, because he forgot they were having a debate and it was his turn to make an argument. It comes out weak and pliant. Eddie would sit inside one million dirty photo booths, he’d miss one million movies he paid for, to have Richie sweet talk him. He’s embarrassingly far gone. 

“Ten, now.” Richie says, but he’s already backing up towards the entrance to the booth, like he knows he’s won. He reaches his hands out, grabbing the air in front of Eddie. “Eds, baby, take a picture with me.” 

Eddie whines, something childlike and fussy, or at least he thinks he does. His head is sort of swimming. “I hate you so much.” He murmurs, walking up and shoving himself around Richie and into the photo booth. It’s cast in dim yellow light, and smells like sticky soda, but the bench they’re meant to sit on is clean enough. God, Eddie doesn’t even recognize himself. 

“You love me,” Richie says triumphantly, and Eddie has to bite his tongue. Because fuck, he probably does. Eddie knows how Richie means it, something light and easy, but like, look at him. Eddie is currently sat inside of a dirty, 100 year old photo booth because Richie called him _baby_. There’s only a few words that could describe Eddie right now, and they all pretty much mean the same thing. And it’s big, and scary, and way too fucking soon.

Eddie takes a deep, steadying breath, and says, “Only if you’re paying.” It doesn’t come out right, sort of shaky and a beat too late, but Richie doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t say anything, for once in his life, so it’s okay. 

Richie snorts. “You only want me for my money,” But he pulls out two single bills and inserts them into the slot, so chances are he’s a little whipped too. 

“Amongst other things, yeah.” 

“Yeah? Like what?” 

“Your car, for starters.” Eddie says.

“You are an evil, evil little elf.” Richie replies, almost to himself. 

“And you’re a fucking… Giant. So.” Eddie mutters.

Richie tilts his head side to side, like he’s measuring the weight of the insult. “Not your best work, I’m gonna admit.” 

“You are so-”

“Shut up, it’s picture time.” 

Eddie flips him off, but he’s secretly sort of happy that he and Richie will have some photos for themselves, so he obliges. Richie’s hand finds his, somehow, intertwining their fingers, as Eddie turns to grin at the camera, and it feels like relief. It’s not like he forgets what it's like, to touch Richie. Quite the opposite. But getting to after not being able to feels like coming up for air after being stuck underwater. Like learning to appreciate something as easy and constant as breathing. 

The booth has a tiny, grainy computer screen at the top. It flashes a glitchy countdown, and Eddie smiles as he waits. It doesn’t feel forced like it usually does, for school pictures or his mother’s shitty photography, though. Because Richie’s hand is warm and steady, and his thumb pets at Eddie’s knuckles like it always does, so the smile on his face isn’t wide and biting. It’s small, genuine, spread over his cheeks like it always must be when he looks at Richie. 

That thought is - Eddie doesn’t really know what it is. It’s reassuring, almost. Being faced with proof like that, that he’s really, actually happy. That Richie _makes_ him happy. It spreads through his chest and makes his eyes go blurry, and at the last second he leans his head on Richie’s shoulder. Because he can. Because they’re on a _date_ , despite everything, and if he’s safe anywhere in this entire fucking theater it’s here. 

Richie’s breath hitches, and he turns down to look at Eddie as the camera flashes, warm and a little disbelieving. 

Eddie shifts his head a little, so it’s turned towards Richie as opposed to where he had been before. “You know,” he starts, “The whole point of pictures is that you’re like, posing and looking at the camera.” 

Richie doesn’t answer right away, staring at Eddie like he’s something - not human. Wondrous and magical. It hurts to look at, sort of, like Richie equates to the sun. “You are so…” Richie trails off, an echo of his statement earlier, only now the tone has changed. Less confrontational, less accusatory. Something gentle and surprised.

“I’m so what?” Eddie asks softly. 

Richie’s other hand, the one not still linked with Eddie’s, comes up to brush a few strands of hair away from Eddie’s forehead. It’s so tender, and nearly second nature, that Eddie can’t help but sigh. Lean into it. 

Richie laughs breathily, hand coming to stroke the soft skin of Eddie’s under eye before it settles on the back of his neck. “Jesus,” He mumbles. 

Eddie tilts his head, a little confused but more enthralled with anything. At first touching Richie was like a breath of fresh air, but now he’s drowning in it, suffocating, and he never wants to breathe again. Eddie figures he could be anywhere, do anything, as long as he never had to be anywhere further than arms reach. 

“You gonna finish a sentence anytime soon?” Eddie jabs. It holds no heat, how could it, when Eddie says it as he reaches up to stroke the span of skin just outside of Richie’s jawbone. 

Eddie can hear the beeping again, the telltale sound of the countdown till the next photo, but he doesn’t look away.

“Gonna finish… with your mom. Soon.” Richie says, distracted. 

“You are so stupid,” Eddie says with finality. Then, because he’s hardwired to Richie, he starts laughing louder than the joke deserves. Mostly it’s because he’s giddy, though. A little touch-drunk and really fucking happy. Richie laughs too, head tilting down, bashful and Eddie watches as the camera flashes, covers him in white light. You’d have to pay him to look away from Richie when he laughs. 

“We’re really bad at this,” Eddie says, still chuckling. 

“What?” 

“Taking photos.” 

Richie mumbles something in response, Eddie doesn’t really listen. He’s high on something easier than adrenaline - lacking everything but that sickening anxiety that comes with it. He’s still a little dizzy, hands shaking, chest thumping hard and carbonation bubbling in his stomach. It’s not bad, quite the opposite, really. Like the feeling that comes before something really good and not after.

The countdown starts again, and Eddie decides to do something really fucking stupid. 

Decides isn’t the right word, because that would imply that he thought about it before he did it, which he didn’t. But he’s suddenly overcome with an overwhelming urge to kiss Richie. Suddenly isn’t right either, because it never goes away. It just peaks and fades to a dull simmer, alternating always. There isn’t a time where he doesn’t want to kiss Richie. 

And it’s a multitude of things. It’s Richie calling him baby, calling him Eds, calling him at all. It’s Richie laughing and Richie staring and Richie touching him, without fear of rejection, because Richie is brave. He always has been. Richie is brave by just being Richie, by being loud and unafraid. He’s inspiring and he’s kind, and he touches Eddie softy and smiles even softer, that private Eddie Only smile that Eddie is so, so lucky to have. 

He - he makes Eddie feel _good._ About himself and about them, and that’s so new, and different, and invigorating. He looks at Eddie like Eddie is the precious one, like he can’t believe _Eddie_ wants him. Which is just - it’s hard to handle, in all honesty. The complexity of how similar they are in all ways. 

It’s the fact that Eddie is probably in love with him. He’s never been in love before - can’t compare it to anything - but this feels like it. Or at least like he’s on the way to it. And sure, of course it’s fucking scary. Terrifying. But it’s also large and all consuming and Eddie feels like he can do anything. 

Except, of course, tell Richie. Not yet anyway, not for a little while. 

So Eddie settles for the next best thing, the thing he can do that will say it without saying it. He leans up, cupping Richie’s jaw in his hands, and presses his lips against him just as the camera flashes for the last time. The way his body sags as soon as their mouths touch, the way he sighs in relief, is probably all too telling. He can’t find it in him to care. 

He hears the sound of the camera more than he sees it, this time, because he’s - well. Occupied. Eddie hadn’t even meant to get it on camera, really. He’s glad that he did though, glad he can take this moment and keep it. Kind of like killing two birds with one stone but nicer, a less violent metaphor. Watering two flowers with one pot? It feels a little more wax-poetic-y than he’d consider himself. Maybe Richie should stick to the puns instead of him. 

Eddie separates himself from Richie slowly, lips removing one another with a quiet click. Richie does this thing after he’s been kissed, Eddie notices. Really it’s more a handful of things, always the same. Richie’s eyes stay closed, just for a second, the kind of thing you wouldn’t notice unless you paid attention. Then, as they open, his lips press. Move against one another like he’s rubbing chapstick in without using his fingers. Last, but furthest from least, he smiles. It’s a slow thing, dazed and blinding and unintentional. It’s kind of the best smile in the world, which makes it like, 10 times harder not to lean in and kiss him again just at the sight of it. 

“Hi,” Richie says, nonsensical, and Eddie thinks - not for the first time - that he’s really fucking lucky to be the one who renders Richie Tozier speechless. From what he’s heard and seen, it isn’t an easy feat. 

“Hey,” Eddie says back, grinning. There’s something in the back of his brain, like an alarm sound, the feeling like he’s forgotten something. He ignores it, because Eddie is a lot on high alert all the time, and it can’t be too important. He’s kiss heavy and smitten, and there’s nothing on the brief list his brain reels off that’s more important than watching Richie. 

“We should probably grab the photos, because - um -” Richie says, and that’s as far as he gets before the alarm buzzing in the back takes a forefront. 

“Shit!” Eddie says, scrambling over Richie and out of the booth, ignoring his burst of laughter. The last thing Eddie needs is anyone else to glance down or god-forbid pick up one of the two strips of pictures and see - a lot of things. Richie and Eddie kissing, for one. That’s obvious. But even if that photo wasn’t there, Eddie is clairvoyant. The look he’d been giving Richie would suggest anything but a platonic relationship. It’s like, no, Eddie can’t see himself at all times, thank God, but he isn’t a complete blithering idiot. He can _feel_ the gooey, shiny, puppy-dog-eyed face he gets just looking at Richie. Now he’s not even sure he wants _Richie_ to see it. 

That’s asking for too much from the ever giving universe, it seems, because as Eddie reaches down after the brief pause of relief at the empty lobby to grab the pictures, Richie snakes them out of his hand. 

“Fucker," Eddie half-shouts, reaching his hands out in a weak attempt to snatch the photos back. If it’s weak because Eddie knows it’s futile, and that he’s already lost, or because Richie is too damn tall and lanky for it to make a difference, Eddie doesn’t know. Richie cackles like it’s the latter, because he’s anything but kind to Eddie’s weak ego. 

Eddie slumps, arms crossed and pouting, as Richie opens the strips up and stares at the pictures. Eddie glares at the white background of the photos in Richie’s hands, cheeks heating up in preparation for the undeniability of Richie’s croons once he gets a good look at Eddie’s star-struck expression. 

Eddie preemptively mumbles a weak, “Shut up!” Just to save his own ass. 

The cackle pitters off until it’s gone all together, which Eddie didn’t really expect. In fact, Richie goes silent. He’s just staring at the photos and all of their incriminating content, eyebrows a little high on his head. Eddie’s blush turns from cheeky embarrassment to red hot humiliation, and he shifts his eyes so he’s staring at the wall behind Richie’s head instead. 

They don’t stay there long, because Richie is a goddamn opposite ended magnet whose match lies in Eddie’s pupils, and when Eddie looks at Richie again he’s even more surprised to find that Richie is blushing too. 

“What?” Eddie asks, “What is it?” 

Richie’s throat works, opening on the end of a swallow and releasing some pitiful sort of noise that he covers with clearing it. Eddie’s brow furrows. “Nothing. It’s - they’re good. Good pictures.” 

“Are you having a stroke?” Eddie questions again, only halfway serious. He gets a little more serious when Richie’s response to that question is a big old nothing. “Richie, dude,” 

Richie’s eyes snap up to meet his like he hadn’t heard Eddie, which does nothing to settle his concern. “What? Oh, here.” Richie says, extending the photos Eddie’s way. 

Eddie gapes at him, for just a second, before the prickling nervousness that Richie was having an aneurysm dials back into the more constant nervousness that Eddie’s buzzing at almost always. Eddie rolls his eyes, accepting the photos as he mumbles, “Not what I asked, but nice of you to…” and then he doesn’t finish. 

The photos are good. Richie was right about that. They’re black and white, two sets of three, and on like, an unbiased uninterested level, they’re good. The pictures are clear. Whatever. Eddie has never been unbiased or uninterested. 

Eddie glances at the photo of them kissing, first. Mostly because it’s easier. It softens some of that apprehension. It’s a sweet photo, and he’s never seen like, what they look like when they kiss. For clear reasons. But it’s sweet. They’re smiling into it, a little bit, and Richie’s got one hand on the back of Eddie’s neck while Eddie cups his jaw. It feels - personal. Romantic, even. The kiss in general, not even just the photo. The kind of kiss he’d feel weird about looking at if he hadn’t been the one involved. 

The next two photos are the kickers. The homeruns. The winner-takes-all in the olympic sport of Who Can be More of a Sap.

The one above the bottom is more of what Eddie had been expecting, considering Richie’s head is tilted back in laughter and Eddie is looking at him like he hung the fucking moon. In all honesty, he hates seeing that look paint his face a little less than he thought he would. Like, sure, he still flushes with embarrassment and cringes minutley at the fact that he makes that face. But most of all it’s just - reassuring. Softening. Like maybe all the things he feels in his chest are real enough to make him look like that. Like maybe, one day, saying those Big Three Words won’t feel so scary, if he’s been saying them with his face this whole time. 

Now, the top photo. That’s where everything starts making no sense and also a little too much sense. 

Eddie is smiling at the camera, head on Richie’s shoulder, just as he’d posed himself. That was the one he’d expected to come exactly as it was. No surprises there. But there is. A surprise, actually. Because the thing is-

The thing is Richie is looking at him. Head tilted down, smiling softly like he does after he’s been kissed. Eddie hadn’t kissed him, though, so Eddie kinda figures that’s his Eddie Smile more than it is anything else, which is fine. Better than fine. 

And then Eddie focuses on Richie’s face, and understands all at once Richie’s eyebrow raised blush just a moment before. Because Richie is looking at Eddie with that same starry-eyed, all consuming, cringe inducing if you aren’t the recipient face that Eddie wears himself. 

It feels big, and also small. Cause, no, Eddie didn’t really think that look was like, the universal look of the L word, or whatever. Not consciously, anyway. He mostly figured he himself was just embarrassingly far gone way too soon. But looking at Richie, he gets it. That like, this is as big for Richie as it is for him. And also, that Richie probably also feels embarrassingly far-gone. Which is huge, but not surprising. On the surface, yeah. On the level that Eddie is a little insecure, enough so to think that anybody looking at him like that is crazy. But deeper? Of course that’s how it is. Of course Richie would feel like that too. 

Eddie feels his eyebrows raise, ironically enough, as he comes to this conclusion, and he snorts. He looks up from the photo set like breaking a trance, and sees Richie avoiding Eddie’s reaction just as Eddie had been. And then, of course, like a motion sensor, their eyes meet just as Eddie reaches him. It’s nearly laughable, the way they match each other, the way they mimic one another. Eddie’s sure he’d find it funny, maybe even will one day, once the whole _Holy shit, I think this is it for me_ feeling passes. 

They stare at each other, for just a second. Some silent recognition passing through the both of them in blushes and wide eyes that sounds kind of like _You too, huh?_ Before Eddie breaks into hysterical giggles that Richie echoes almost immediately. 

Eddie tears at the seam that keeps the two sets together, slipping one in his back pocket. He steps closer, lets his fingers brush Richie’s as he hands him his copy, finding comfort in the idea that maybe, that electricity he feels everywhere whenever they touch isn’t something he feels alone. 

A little more than three seconds pass where they just stare at each other, and Eddie imagines that if this were a cartoon or a video game, there would be little hearts pulsing in and around both of them. Then he realizes how fucking insane the two of them must look, goo-goo eyeing each other outside a photobooth, and he clears his throat and looks away. 

“So, uh,” Richie says, like he’s paid to break silences, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom?” 

Eddie, after the internal emotional whiplash _that_ sentence gives him, sighs witheringly. It’s kind of like everytime Eddie has one of these Come to Jesus moments having to do with how much he really feels for Richie, whatever squirrel that controls Richie’s brain to mouth function just needs to act up. Eddie’s coming to think of it like the Universe slapping him upside the head like _Well, you made your bed. Lie in it, dumbass._

“Are you like, asking me?” Eddie says, sarcasm playing on his tongue as easy as breathing. Fuck it. He made his bed, right? 

Richie snorts, a little bashful. “I mean, sort of?” 

Eddie’s brow furrows impossibly, “What?” 

Richie laughs again, blushes redder again, “Like… The bathroom? Is a secluded place. Private. I’m going to go there.” 

Eddie, never too fast on the uptake with these sorts of things, stares even harder. Maybe he broke Richie. That’s not too bad a thought. All it took was one kiss. 

“Ohhh…” Eddie says, just as his brain does. He gets it, now. The bathroom. “Right, the bathroom. Yeah, I’ve got to um. I’m going there, too.” He cringes at his vernacular, wonders briefly what the hell is wrong with _Richie_ for wanting anything to do with him. 

Richie just laughs again, though, brighter now. “Thought so,” He says, because while he’s a stumbling mess everywhere else, it will not be said that he doesn’t know how to smooth talk his way into or out of any situation. Eddie likes that more than he should.

One thing leads to another, and Eddie finds himself pressed against the wall of a handicapped stall, Richie’s mouth on his and Richie’s hands in his hair and Richie, Richie, Richie. He’s aware, dimly, that never in a million years would he consider himself the type of person to makeout in a public fucking bathroom, of all places. Hell, he doesn’t think he’s ever considered himself the type of person to makeout in a bathroom at _all,_ no matter how many times he disinfects his own at home a week. He's also, painfully so, aware that this marks the second time he's done this anyway. Whether that’s a testament to how bad of an influence Richie has on him or just a real visceral vision of how he’d sort of do anything just to kiss Richie as he pleases, he doesn’t know. Richie slips his tongue into Eddie’s mouth at that moment, though, and any and all higher functioning and thinking kind of turns off anyway, so it isn’t like it matters. 

They don’t end up seeing the movie, after all. 

\--------------------------

**5.** _Summer_ , _1993_

Before it happens, there are a handful of developments in Eddie Kaspbrak’s life, all having to do with Richie Tozier.

Well, it’s more like two, but they’re big ones, sort of. And they go hand in hand. In a roundabout way. 

When the first one happened, it was still Spring. And in all honesty, it’s still Spring now, technically. It had been April, and now it’s May, but the air is hot and sort of stuffy and that cool breeze that comes along after the rain passes is long gone, and his classes have gone from preparing for exams and talks of What To Expect From University to the exams themselves and long since sent in applications, so. In Eddie’s book it’s Summer, and this had started in Spring. 

It had been simple, really. Richie had been in Eddie’s bedroom, hunched over crossed legs on the bedspread with his chemistry book propped on his lap. Surprisingly focused, or focused in terms of Richie, anyway. 

It had been hot in Eddie’s house all together, and it kind of always was. The same stuffy warmth that encompasses all of Derry from May to August existing in and around his bedroom. Eddie’s mother has an issue with running the A/C, says that it’s a waste of money, that motorized fans exist for a reason. He doesn’t tell her that it’s the same as running the heat, which she does perpetually, because it isn’t worth the argument. He knows deep down it’s that thing in her brain, that ever existing need to avoid sickness, that causes her to do things based on misinformed assumptions like a cold house means cold feet which means a cold overall. It’s a can of worms that’s already been opened, yes, but not one he feels like dumping out any time soon, or ever, really. 

Anyway, the heat is nice in the Winter, and he’s got three fans in his room including the overhead one, so he’ll survive. 

That stuffiness, mixed with how Richie tends to cause this full-body heat up for Eddie whenever he’s around, however, is what made Eddie get up with a heaving sigh and shove the window next to his bed open. It hadn’t done much, because it was still warm outside, but that cool breeze was still a constant, so it wasn’t like it made it _worse._

And Richie had looked over, eyebrow raised quizzically, and said, “Hey, you think I could climb that tree and get in here somehow?” 

And Eddie, who hadn’t taken the question _literally_ , his mistake, had shrugged and said, “I mean, sure, but my mom keeps a ladder outside next to the tool shed, so. You wouldn’t have to.” To which Richie had made a considering noise in the back of his throat, nodded, and gone back to work. Eddie didn’t think anything of it. Again, his mistake. 

So later that night, after Eddie’s brushed his teeth and closed his bedroom door quietly despite his mother’s snoring, which had been filtering through the hallway since 7pm, he is not expecting to hear what sounds like a tree falling against the side of his house. 

He jumps and simultaneously twists his head around so quickly his neck pops, and he flinches as he grasps it, chest heaving as he stares out the closed window. He can’t see much, considering his desk lamp is still on. Really all he can see is his slightly warped reflection, practically drowning in his pajama pants and too large sweatshirt. 

There’s another, quieter bang, followed by a scrape and then a few creaks, and Eddie puffs his chest out in faux bravery, marching over to the window. His bravado fades as he hesitates at the latch, weighing his options. Worst case it’s a burglar, but like, out of every window in his house, his is definitely the hardest to access. Slightly better but still just as bad, maybe a tree really did fall down, but it’s also not windy enough, or at all, and he’s sure he would've like, seen it. 

Curiosity and also the brief passing but just as worrying thought that he’s either gone totally insane or fallen asleep on his feet get the best of him, and he yanks the window open, leaning out of it with what he hopes is a menacing look on his face. And he sees.. Nothing. At first. Just the big oak tree, still standing, in his forward vision. He furrows his eyebrows, looking left and right, and then-

“Eds!” 

Eddie flinches, looking down, and making eye contact with Richie. Richie, who stands below him, four steps down on the ladder he hadn’t realized was propped against his window. Richie, who is grinning at him, nearing on manic, in a big bright green sweatshirt and awful plaid red pajama pants, like Christmas meets LSD. Richie, who, for some reason, is standing outside his window at 9pm. 

Eddie’s expression hardens, just a bit. “What the fuck?” Is what comes out of his mouth, and he hopes it functions as the handful of questions that he wants to ask. What are you doing here, what is that monstrosity you’re wearing, why do I like you so much, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. 

Richie’s grin, unsurprisingly, does not falter, as he climbs another step on the ladder, which is shaking only a little bit under his weight. “You said I could come.” He says it simply, like a fact, like they had a very specific conversation involving Richie and his existence outside of Eddie’s house tonight. Which, and not that he needs to say this, they did not.

“I did not say that,” Eddie replies, like a fact, only because it is. 

“Uh, yeah, you did,” Richie says, and then he’s face to face with Eddie, literally, considering he’s hunched over the top of the ladder. “I asked if I could climb that tree,” he punctuates this with a sharp turn and gesture at said tree, which causes him to nearly lose his balance, and Eddie’s arms shoot out to stabilize him at the shoulders. Richie’s smile turns a little more sincere, but he keeps going. “And you said I could but you,” cue an awful mockery of Eddie’s voice, “ _Had a ladder_ , so,” 

“I don’t sound like that, asshole.” 

“You definitely do, Eds.” 

Eddie doesn’t humor him, cutting back around to the original topic, “I thought you meant it like, hypothetically. _Could_ you climb the tree. Not as an actual question.”

Richie shrugs, “Well, here I am.” And then, a little quieter, not so much confidence, “Do you want me to go? I can go.” 

“No,” Eddie says, shaking his head and answering before he can even think about it. Cause like, yeah, what the fuck, and all that, but he also doesn’t. He likes Richie here. “Just - Hold on. Stay there.” 

Eddie turns around, ignoring Richie’s slightly sarcastic but painfully smitten, “Nowhere I’d rather be,” and walks to his bedroom door, opening it and sticking his head into the hallway. He hears - nothing for a moment, worryingly, and he holds his breath. A few seconds pass, and then it comes, the nearing on painful sound of his mother’s wheezing snore. He winces, half in pity and half in embarrassment, before he clicks his door shut again, turning the lock. 

When he turns, he’s pleasantly surprised to see Richie still outside, tapping his fingers on the windowsill. Eddie grins, walking briskly back and opening his window all the way, stepping back only slightly to avoid getting smacked in the face by one of Richie’s long limbs. Richie swings a leg through the window, straddling it, and Eddie allows him to balance himself around Eddie’s shoulders as he climbs in the rest of the way. 

It’s quiet, thank God, when Richie’s feet plant themselves on Eddie’s floor. Richie’s smiling at him still, that bright proud sort of smile that appears on his face whenever he gets something he wants. Eddie sees it often, because he isn’t very good at denying Richie anything. 

Eddie smiles back despite himself, mumbling, “You look ridiculous.” Which is only partly true. Partly because Richie always looks ridiculous, but his black hair is curled around his face and his cheeks are flushed pink with exertion and something else, something sweeter, and Richie’s smile kind of puts the sun to shame, so. Eddie always thinks that Richie is gorgeous. 

Richie does not grace him with a response, instead sort of koala-ing himself around Eddie, long arms around his shoulders and his head tucked into Eddie’s neck. Eddie does a myriad of things at once. He sighs, not on purpose, in relief, because touching Richie after not touching Richie is like jumping into cool water on a hot day. He wraps his arms around Richie’s neck, pulling him in even tighter. And, lastly, he furrows his eyebrows, which are kind of like that perpetually, but especially around Richie. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks, muffled by that awful bright green sweatshirt. 

“Yeah,” Richie says softly. 

Eddie pulls back, just a bit, cupping Richie’s cheeks and looking him in the eye. Making sure he’s being honest, if anything, because Richie’s eyes can’t fib even when his mouth does. “You sure?” Eddie asks again, although he finds nothing wrong on Richie’s expression. His eyes look happy, if anything. Pupils dilated, but that might just be his glasses. 

“Missed you,” Richie answers, and the pink flush goes a little redder. 

“It’s hasn’t even been five hours.” Eddie says, but he leans in and presses his lips against Richie’s, and he knows Richie can feel the way Eddie’s body relaxes, the way he falls into the kiss, and knows he doesn’t have to say it. Everything Eddie does screams _I missed you, too_. 

And that, really, had been the beginning of the end. Or at least the end of Eddie spending his nights alone. 

It isn’t every night, but it’s more often than not that Eddie goes to sleep with Richie curled around him and wakes up two hours before he has to usher Richie out of the window so no one finds out. It becomes a habit, a routine, one he doesn't like to think about living without. 

\--------------------------

The next development is one Eddie saw coming from a mile away. Longer than that, probably, bigger than that. 

The thing about senior year is that it is both longer and shorter than you are ever really expecting. 

The thing about Sonia Kaspbrak is that she expects and insists Eddie to attend college close to her, which means Bowdoin, Colby, Derry Community, worst of all. 

The thing about Eddie is that he’s sent out eight applications, none of which are in Derry, Maine. Three of them are in New York. And the other five, well. They are in California. 

And the thing about Richie Tozier, is he has no idea. 

He has no idea that Eddie, stupidly enough, kinda sorta jumped to an abrupt conclusion that the day they all leave Derry, the day they spread themselves thin across the country, he plans to follow Richie. Had sent five fucking applications as soon as Richie had uttered the words _Southern California, probably,_ to any college he qualified for and a few he didn’t for reasons he doesn’t really know. It’s hard to justify it, in Eddie’s head, because it doesn’t really make any sense. 

Like, he’s known Richie for a year. Barely even that. And it’s a pipe dream to say they’ll be together forever, it’s ill-informed and overly hopeful and probably bullshit, but. But. 

He can’t explain it. It’s this certainty, this understanding, buried deep inside Eddie’s brain and his heart and his skin, that he and Richie deserve more time. That it’s good, so good, between them, and he doesn’t want it to end just because they found each other too late. It’s this sick, painful feeling whenever he thinks about leaving Richie. Because he knows himself, he knows that if push comes to shove and he ends up in New York and Richie ends up in California, that’s it. Eddie isn’t stupid enough, selfish enough, to try and keep Richie to himself across an entire country. And the last thing he wants to do is break his own heart, God forbid Richie’s. 

So, like an idiot, he lies to his mother and doesn’t tell Richie, and he applies to UPSC, UCLA, Panoma, Irvine, you name it. Any university within the large vicinity of the state, even if he doesn’t meet the requirements.

And yeah, he’s scared. Terrified, actually. Of his mother, of telling her or her finding out or the search party he’ll have to deal with say she never learns at all and discovers her sons empty bedroom the day he leaves, nothing but a note. He’s scared of the student loans and the debt and of a brand new city. He’s scared of telling Richie. Worried that maybe Richie doesn’t want this, won’t want him. When it comes to California and everything that comes with it, there isn’t much he’s calm about. 

The whole hiding it from Richie thing wasn’t really on purpose. Not first. It was more of a protectivity thing to begin with, not wanting to get either one of their hopes up only to find out he doesn’t get in anywhere. Cause that would hurt, more than a lot of things. The idea of watching Richie’s face fall, so quick before he forces it into something plaintive, having to hear his weak attempts at making it Not A Big Deal even when they both know it is, having to, God, having to break it off when he leaves. All of it is upsetting, more upsetting than it should be. 

And then there was the fact that they don’t talk about what happens after senior year. Haven’t since that day in the clubhouse, lifetimes ago, basically. And Eddie doesn’t know why, but he’s pretty sure it's a conglomerate of reasons. Fear, mainly. Fear of letting go, of honesty, on both sides. Eddie has no idea what Richie wants, and he’s fucking terrified that it isn’t the same as what he wants, so he doesn’t bring it up. 

\--------------------------

Richie gets into all three schools he applies to in Los Angeles. He declares that he’s attending UCLA. Eddie kisses him, tells him how proud he is of him, doesn’t admit he had applied as well. 

\--------------------------

Eddie hears back from two out of three schools in New York, and he gets into both. 

He hasn’t heard back from anywhere in California. 

When he tells the others, Richie is subdued. Not on the surface, but Eddie can see him. The blankness behind his eyes, the way his lips turn down when he thinks no one is watching. Too bad for him, Eddie is always watching. 

Eddie thinks about telling him he applied. The voice in his head reminds him how much worse it would hurt to see Richie happy before he finds out Eddie never gets in anyway. 

Eddie doesn’t tell him.

\--------------------------

May comes, one month before the end of senior year, and Eddie gets two sealed letters and one manilla folder in the mail. 

And he’s not even paying attention, really, sorting through the stack of envelopes and junk magazines, separating them into two piles when usually there’s only one, but now he’s got mail with his name on it. 

He doesn’t even think about it until he’s halfway up the stairs, when he looks down and remembers that his two acceptance letters to colleges in New York he doesn’t care to attend looked a lot like the folder he’s got clasped in his hand right now. His hands clench, unintentionally, gripping around the paper so tight he nearly cuts himself, and he races up the remaining four steps, skidding into his bedroom and slamming the door behind him. 

He leans against it, chest heaving, and he wills himself calm. It’s most likely the last college on the east coast. Eddie has all but convinced himself the entire application process he went through for California was a fever dream, so vivid and intense he simply woke up thinking he’d done it and forgot. 

But there’s two other letters, addressed to him, and he knows what a rejection letter looks like by now. Those can’t be from anywhere else except...

Eddie sits on his bed, cross legged, and he knows he should open the letters first, soften the blow. He plans to, even, but suddenly he's got the folder twisted open and he’s dumping its contents on the bed, avoiding the pamphlets that come out in turn for grasping the letter. 

The letter, which he skims in impatience and bone-rattling anticipation, reads _Edward Kaspbrak_ and _UCLA Admissions Office,_ and a handful of other things, praise and requirements, probably, but he doesn’t look at them. He drops the letter in favor of pressing his hands over his mouth, an exhilarated bark of a laugh falling out behind them. 

There’s an intense buzzing running through him, relief, disbelief, fear, happiness, all wrapped into something intoxicating, something that makes him shake. His brain is on a current repeated mantra of _fuck, fuck, what the fuck,_ so constant and fast it’s dizzying. 

He knows it’s not gonna be easy. Like, it can’t be. Even if his mother knew, even if she _supported_ it, it would still be hard. There’s admission cost and the living situation and how he’d even get to California in the first place, but God. It all feels worth it. 

And then, his brain both helpfully and traitorously reminds him that he and Richie could probably drive to California. Which would be an easy thought, and exciting one, if Richie had any fucking idea that Eddie had applied in the first place. 

Now, that mantra of _fuck, fuck, what the fuck,_ is louder, a little more hectic, and for very different reasons. 

Eddie sighs, picks the letter up once more, confirms he read it right, and drops it again. Then, he gets up to call Richie. 

He’s quiet on the phone, even though his mom is out grocery shopping or stopping at the pharmacy or gossiping with Miss Carabas, who lives down the road. He doesn’t pay much attention to where she says she’s going. Sometimes she doesn’t even tell him. 

Even still, it’s sort of like there’s a ghost of her, an astral projection, that exists around him everywhere he goes. He’s gotten good at blocking out the voice in his head that sounds like her, that seems to work it’s way through his mouth in high-pitched warbling of Be Careful and Don’t Touch That! But that doesn’t mean it’s gone away completely. 

Which is why, with the prickling behind his neck that feels like he’s being watched, he whispers over the telephone, “Hey, can you come over?” 

Richie, who sounds sort of breathless, like he stopped running a mile just to pick up the phone, says, “Sure, Eds. Right now?” 

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

“Window or front door?”

Eddie grins, “Front door is fine, she’s not home right now.” 

“See you in a minute,” Richie says, before the _click!_ Of the phone hanging up rings through his ears. 

Eddie leans his head against the base of the telephone, breathing slowly. He’s trying to avoid getting all worked up, or at least put it off till later when it’s actually necessary. He knows that like, all things considered, it isn’t a big deal. Or it is, because moving across the country with your boyfriend who only became your boyfriend two months ago is kind of crazy, but not a big deal in the sense that Richie is going to hate him. 

Or he will, but Eddie will cross that bridge when he comes to it. 

He breathes in and out slowly for a handful of minutes before he leans back up, walking down the stairs and into the entryway. He stands there, at the foot of the stairs, hands clasped, before realizing that he looks halfway insane. He sighs, half laughing, bringing his hands up and burying his face into them. 

Then, because it has to, the pacing starts. 

It’s a nervous habit, one he’s always had though he doesn’t know when it came to be. Sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, which is the case right now. Eddie is fidgeting, wringing his hands and blowing air out of his lips, walking back and forth in the small space that spans the stairs and the arch into the living room. His head, surprisingly, is sort of empty. Kind of a low static sound, like white noise. If there are thoughts, he can’t decipher them. 

At some point the air grows stuffy, and before Eddie knows it his cheeks are red and there’s sweat prickling the back of his neck, all of which is gross and makes him want to itch his skin off, so he makes his way to the front door and goes to sit on the porch. It’s not much cooler outside, but at least he feels a little bit more like he can breathe. For one, sort of awful second, he longs for his inhaler. 

It’s a crutch, and it’s bullshit, both things he knows better than he might know himself, and no matter how much it helps it never stops this burning feeling of shame from shooting down his spine. Like he’s weaker, juvenile, for using it. However, the last time he remembers even seeing it was the day after he and Richie had their first Real conversation, so it isn’t something he has to dwell on. 

Not right now, anyway, because just as promised, the clunking sound of a beat up engine fills Eddie’s ears. He glances up, and sees Richie’s car pull in, parking in what he’s sure Richie thinks is a swift parallel movement but in reality is crooked and shoddy to the point where he has half a mind to make Richie redo it, just to avoid getting towed. He doesn’t, because he’s more keen to just get this conversation over with. 

It’s hard for Eddie to stay in his state of panicked dread when Richie gets out of his car, grinning, his curls a tangled halo around his head, decked in an awful patterned sweater and jeans. Even harder when Richie does this sort of half walk half jog, meeting Eddie halfway (when did Eddie start walking towards him?) and pulling him in, kissing his hair. He knows better than to kiss him full on the mouth, outside anywhere but especially outside Eddie’s house, because his neighbors are gossips and his mother is a perpetrator. 

Eddie, however, has this sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach that Richie won’t ever kiss him again, so he pulls back, grasp Richie’s cheeks, and fits their lips together. It’s quick, and sweet, and Richie smiles into it. 

Eddie, as he pulls out of it, links his hands in Richie’s between them. Richie does this thing, after he’s been kissed, where his eyes stay closed and his mouth parts a little, like he’s ingraining it into his brain. Eddie does his best to commit that face to memory, even though he doesn’t have to. It isn’t a look he’ll ever forget.

“Hi there,” Richie says, voice rough. Eddie commits that to memory too. 

“Hi,” Eddie says, and then before Richie can keep going, “Inside? I mean, I have something to - uh - talk to you about. Inside.” 

Richie’s face does a handful of expressions, too quick for Eddie to decipher, “Yeah, that’s cool. Lead the way, shortstack.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, mouthing _cool_ under his breath, but it’s dampened by how he squeezes Richie’s hand a little tighter and pulls him towards the door. Richie is surprisingly silent, and when Eddie leans against the cool wood to catch his breath as soon as he’s twisted the lock, Richie is already walking up the stairs. Eddie follows him up, allowing Richie to lead them towards Eddie’s bedroom. He knows where he’s going, by now. He’s been here enough times. 

Eddie doesn’t shut his bedroom door, this time. In case Richie wants to make a quick escape. 

That isn’t something Richie himself seems to be concerned with, however, because he flops himself down on Eddie’s bed, legs crossed and arms folded in front of him. If Eddie didn’t know him so well, he’d look relaxed, easy-going. But Richie’s eyes are blank, and he’s worrying at his bottom lip, and his position isn’t as casual as he’s paying it off to be, he looks guarded. Like he’s protecting himself. Eddie mimics him without meaning to, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. Eddie is also trying (and failing) to appear calm and collected, but they both know better than anyone that if that were the case Eddie would be lying right next to Richie, closing up the space between them instead of widening it. 

“So?” Richie asks, short and clipped but not with malice. Eddie still flinches. 

“So.” 

“Is everything okay?” 

Eddie sighs, “Yeah, it’s. Everything is fine, there’s just something I wanted to talk to you about.” Eddie doesn’t know why he’s dragging this on, it feels like a lose lose either way. He’s never been the type to avoid ripping off the bandaid, figuratively but not literally, of course. He’s actually more keen to leave the bandaid on long past a healed wound before removing it gently with soap and water. 

Richie raises one eyebrow, “Yeah, you said that.” 

Eddie huffs, opens his mouth around words that don’t come out, before he closes it with a click. Richie swallows hard. Eddie starts pacing again. Richie watches him for a moment, still uncharachteristically silent, which does absolutely nothing to calm Eddie’s nerves. 

“Eddie,” Richie starts, (not Eds,) “Not to like, rush you, or whatever, but you’re kind of freaking me out.” His sentence ends on a laugh that isn’t really happy. Hollow, forced, a cover up. 

“Sorry,” Eddie grounds out, stilling himself, facing the left wall. It feels easier than facing Richie. “Sorry. I’m just-” 

“Are you breaking up with me?” Richie asks, all qualms gone. 

Eddie turns his head, then his whole body, so fast he gets dizzy. Gone is the false bravado Richie had not-so-perfectly executed, but he doesn’t look nervous. Not really. He mostly looks blank. His mouth is a straight line, if not downturned at the corners a bit. His eyes are wide, always so with his glasses, but they’re void of much emotion. Richie is good at that, Eddie has come to find. Masking himself up until he’s alone, where he can let everything out. Usually, Eddie is allowed to see it. It cuts deep that he isn’t.

“No, what the fuck?” Eddie asks back, although it isn’t a question. It’s the easiest time he’s had saying anything in the last twenty minutes. Maybe in his entire life. “No - I’m - No.” And now it’s his turn to laugh, dry and kind of bitter like Richie’s was too. Because it is sort of funny, if he looks past how awful it is that that’s where Richie’s brain goes to. Funny, because what he has to say is kind of the complete opposite. 

“Are you sure?” Richie asks, eyes searching, “Because like - it’s okay. I get it, or whatever. You’re allowed to.” 

And Eddie, who’s sort of combative even in the worst situations, says, “What, are you giving me permission?”

“Do you need it?” Richie says back, because he’s nothing if worse when it comes to how he directs words out of his mouth. 

Eddie smiles, small, just a little lilt to the side of his mouth, “I’m not breaking up with you. The complete fucking opposite, actually.” 

Richie smiles too, a little wider. Eddie feels it wash over his body like sunshine. “You proposing?” 

Eddie snorts, presses his hands into his eyes, sighs heavily. He hears shifting, the sound of clothes against fabric, and he smells Richie before he feels him. Richie’s hands come up, grasping around Eddie’s wrists, pulling them down. Richie looks sweeter, softer, still a little careful, as he looks at Eddie, catching his eyes. Eddie intertwines their fingers. 

“You can tell me anything, you know that.” Richie says softly. 

“I know,” Eddie replies. 

“You aren’t proposing, right?” Richie jeers, half a joke, “Cause if you are, I may need a heads up.” 

“That would defeat the purpose.” 

“Well me fainting because you didn’t give me a chance to sit down would too, wouldn’t it?” 

“You might want to sit down anyway.” Eddie says. 

Richie shrugs, untangles one hand from Eddie’s grip to lead him to the bed, sitting them both on the edge of it. He doesn’t let go of Eddie once they’ve settled, which Eddie is grateful for. 

“What’s up, Eds?” Richie asks, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin of Eddie’s knuckles. Both the nickname and the gesture are comforting. 

Eddie heaves in a breath, “I did something really stupid.” Which doesn’t really encapsulate… anything at all, but it feels true. “Or - potentially stupid. It didn’t feel stupid at the time but now it does.” 

Richie tilts his head to the side, reminding Eddie vaguely of a confused puppy. “I do stupid things all the time.” He says, not much of a response. “It’s not the end of the world.” 

Eddie doesn’t know what to say to that, because it sort of feels like it. Instead, he just starts talking, and doesn’t really stop. 

“You know how school is ending in like… a month?” Is how he phrases the beginning of it, not waiting for a response from Richie because like, obviously he knows that. “And awhile ago, you made a comment about applying to a few different schools in Southern California. Then you got into UCLA, and in between those two things I sort of, applied there too? I sent in a few applications for schools in New York, you know that, but every other application is for California. Every other one.” 

“Eddie…” Richie says, but Eddie doesn’t let him get any further. 

“My mom doesn’t know. About any of them, actually, she thinks I’m going to DCC, but I’m not. And I didn’t tell you because we never talked about what we’d do after, you know, high school, and also because I felt like _telling_ you it was a possibility only to have it not happen would fucking suck, so,” Eddie stops, breathes, knows he’s rambling, talking at that speed both his mother and his public speaking teacher from sophomore year both absolutely despise, the one that’s unintelligible, but he can’t stop. It’s like the last month has worked itself into half formed sentences and now they’re all spilling out. “But I got in. To UCLA, I got in. I got the letter today, and I really want to go. To California, and with you. I want to - I want to be _with_ you.” He looks into Richie’s eyes, earnest as he can even though it scares him, “And I know that it’s soon, like crazy soon, and if you don’t - if you don’t want that I won’t blame you. I got into Baruch, anyway, and-” 

Eddie stops, but not by his own volition. 

Because suddenly Richie is there, in his space, pressing his lips against Eddie’s chastely, swallowing the rest of his rant, whatever was left of it, anyway. Eddie’s not really sure what else he had to say, but he also knows that he probably would’ve kept talking until the sun set and rose again. He doesn’t have it in him to be offended by Richie interrupting him, though, probably never would as long as this was how he did it. 

Eddie sighs, presses nimble fingers into the soft space between Richie’s neck and jaw. He doesn’t deepen the kiss, but he does press in firmer, making it a little more real. Richie pulls back from it only to push in again, two quick pecks to Eddie’s mouth, before he breaks away completely. He’s still holding Eddie’s hand. 

**+1**

“I love you,” Richie says, not a whisper, but quiet and hoarse. A confession. 

Eddie’s mouth parts, something smaller than a jaw-drop. Because yeah, it’s big, huge, really. But just because it’s big that doesn’t mean it’s surprising. It shakes the world in a different way, not life changing but life altering. More of a confirmation than a revelation. 

Eddie realizes a few seconds too late that he hasn’t said anything, which is the opposite of what you should do when the person you love loves you back. 

Richie, ahead of the curve as always, says, “Shit. Wait. Sorry, sorry, that’s, I didn’t mean-” 

Eddie’s brow dips and rights itself in between seconds, “You didn’t mean it?” 

“No, I did.” Richie says quickly, “Of fucking course I did, I just-” 

“I love you too.” Eddie says easily, even though it’s not an easy thing to say. And fuck, does it feel good to say it. It’s the same feeling as keeping a secret until it’s finally allowed to be voiced, and, when he thinks about it, it’s mostly the same thing. 

“You do?” Richie asks. Eddie sort of wants to laugh. 

He does, actually, but it’s more of a snort that he tries to cover up. Because like, really? “Dude, I just told you that went behind my mothers’ back to send an application to a university across the country because I wanted to be with you. Multiple applications, actually, five to be exact. Did you miss that part?” 

“Well you were talking at the fucking speed of light, Eds, kind of hard to catch everything.” 

“I was worried you’d think it was stupid!” 

“Oh it was _definitely_ stupid,” Richie laughs, “Like, crazy stupid. But I told you, I do dumb shit all the time.” 

“You want me there, though?” Eddie asks, just to be sure. A little bit because he’s insecure but more so because he just wants to hear Richie say it.

Richie flushes, wide eyed and gaping, “Of course I want you there. I was fucking-” His throat clicks, and he clears it, looking like he wants to stare anywhere else but Eddie’s eyes while he says something vulnerable. He doesn’t, though. “I hated the idea of you in New York while I was in California.” 

“Me too,” Eddie says. And it feels like he should say more, but what else is there, really? 

Which isn’t true in the scheme of everything, there’s a lot more to fucking talk about. Like how they’ll go about telling Eddie’s mother, or how they’ll go about _not_ telling her. And the living situation, and the cost of college and California, how the fuck they’ll even get there. Like how this is probably a colossally bad idea, because they’re just kids, at the end of the day. Still so young, and this is all so big so soon and how more likely than not it will end in flames. 

But, like Richie had said, a few months ago, a few lifetimes ago, that there was no fun without a little fire. And at the time Eddie had disagreed, but now he gets it. High risk, high reward, whatever. 

Because Eddie is coming to realize that nothing is ever as simple as the best or worst case scenario. People are multifaceted, things are multifaceted. And it’s okay to make big rash decisions even when you don’t know the outcome, even when the outcome could be the worst thing in the world. Hell, if he hadn’t kissed Richie, hadn’t jumped off that cliff and into the unknown, he wouldn’t have any of this. It could have gone bad, _so_ bad, but sometimes the bright side is bright enough that it doesn’t matter anyway. 

Eddie Kaspbrak considers himself as a handful of things, polite and clean and obedient, but for the first time maybe ever, he’s sure. He’s sure that he wants this, wants Richie, for however long he can have him. 

Even when Richie makes some offhand comment about convincing Sonia without words to let Eddie go to Los Angeles with him, and the universe smacks him upside the head, not for the first time or the last, that this is the person he’s elected to fall in love with, Eddie is sure. Sure enough that he kisses Richie again, a little deeper, with more meaning, than the last one. 

He made his bed, what else is there to do but lie in it? 

**Author's Note:**

> soooo.... thoughts, comments, concerns? let me know, please, i survive solely off of validation. i hope you enjoyed this, really. let me know if you'd like me to expand on this series? ive got a few half formed ideas, so who knows! if the turnout is good and any of you would like to see more, i have developed an unhealthy obsession and fondness for these two and their little au ish relationship. 
> 
> as always, if you'd like to leave a comment or maybe some spare kudos that would be greatly appreciated. i love you guys, really. thanks for the response on teen age riot, its bigger than i could have ever imagined. 
> 
> you can find me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/punksfinn) as im there 90% of my time. 
> 
> also, i hope you're all staying safe! big scary stuff going around right now. flatten the curve, wash your hands, stay inside. we'll get through this! <3


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